


Our Sick Obsessions

by Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)



Series: Don't Be Bashful [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Affairs, Airports, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Arguing, Attempted Murder, Attempted Sex, Awkward Dates, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Boyfriends, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Canon Backstory, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Chance Meetings, Come Marking, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Comfort/Angst, Condoms, Confessions, Corpses, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Cuddling & Snuggling, Date Rape, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dating, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dead People, Denial of Feelings, Desperation, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dresses, Drinking to Cope, Drunk Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Engagement, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face Punching, Facial Shaving, Fainting, Family Issues, Fear, Feels, Fights, First Dates, First Meetings, First Time Blow Jobs, Flashbacks, Flirting, Foreshadowing, Frottage, Gags, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Goodbyes, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Hate Sex, Holidays, Hotels, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Kidnapping, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, Late at Night, Licking, Light Bondage, Literal Sleeping Together, Love, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, Love at First Sight, Lube, M/M, Makeup, Making Out, Making Up, Male Homosexuality, Marriage Proposal, Masturbation, McDonald's, Meet the Family, Memories, Men Crying, Multi, Murder, Neck Kissing, Nervousness, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, New Years, Nicknames, Night Terrors, Nightmares, No Lube, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Oaths & Vows, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Out of Character, Past Relationship(s), Personal Favorite, Phone Calls & Telephones, Prostate Massage, Psychological Trauma, Psychopaths In Love, Public Display of Affection, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Shakespeare, Regret, Rejection, Restaurants, Restraints, Revenge, Romance, Rough Sex, Same-Sex Marriage, Seduction, Separation Anxiety, Sequel, Serial Killers, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Simultaneous Orgasm, Slice of Life, So Wrong It's Right, Spit As Lube, Strangulation, Suggestive Themes, Survivor Guilt, Suspense, Switzerland, Tags Contain Spoilers, Talking, Teasing, Threesome - M/M/M, Travel, Trust, Wedding Rings, Weddings, Wine, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-12 02:33:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 60,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13537836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry
Summary: Max Aleshire and his lover, rich psychopathic serial killer Cameron Fenn, have been through difficult times. After a traumatic event and a severe head injury, Max’s mental state has started to unravel. Worried about him, Cameron suggests they get away from it all for a while. So, for the holidays, they travel to Switzerland together in an attempt to recover.But Cameron isn’t the only one with an interest in Max: Ash Sinclair, a rich auditor in Zürich on business, also has his eyes on the Aussie. He seems a lot nicer than Cameron, but Max learns too late that appearances can be deceiving.A short fictional suspenseful romance novel by Noëlle McHenry about a young man caught in a dangerous love triangle. Sequel toIgnore the Camera.***Re-writing in progress***





	1. Hotel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ignore the Camera](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520076) by [Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry). 
  * Inspired by [No Worries](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13259775) by [Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry). 
  * Inspired by [Polarity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691658) by [Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry). 



> **Now available as a free eBook on[Smashwords](https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/811068)!**
> 
>  
> 
> _“That which is done out of love is always beyond good and evil.” – Friedrich Nietzsche_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **EDIT 2 (May 17th, 2018):** Rewrote the rest of the chapter, too.  
>  EDIT 1 (May 16th, 2018): Rewrote the first (opening) segment of the chapter according to some points by Dwight V. Swain. Also, moved it back to start with tension rather than violence.  
> Posted on February 1st, 2018.

The taxi slid to a halt in front of Cameron’s grandparents’ house. Despite the overcast afternoon sky, common in Zürich, the home seemed to glow. Around it fell a light blanket of snow, giving it an angelic white trim. No doubt its beauty now was a red herring.  
         As a writer, Cameron figured he knew what to expect. Now was the part of the story where disaster struck—where love left in a cruel twist of fate. He whipped out his cellphone and looked again at the text his Australian lover, Max, sent less than half an hour ago.  
         “I’m at your grandparents’ house. We need to talk.”  
         The words “we need to talk” were what drove anxiety deep into his mind. At least in his life, those words never meant anything good. He thought of the last time he’d heard them and what happened afterward: a suicide, he remembered. He could only hope Max didn’t have anything that drastic in mind. If he did, he knew he deserved it for letting the Aussie go somewhere on his own.  
         When he noticed the driver eyeing him in the rearview mirror, the dark ecru-skinned writer jolted upright in his seat. He reached blindly for his back pocket, then pulled up his thigh-length shadow-gray coat when he realized it was in the way. Then, at last, he took out his expensive leather wallet and nosed through the many Swiss francs inside.  
         “Keep the change,” he snapped as he tossed forward a random amount of colored banknotes.  
         The driver hesitated before gathering them without comment. Meanwhile, Cameron pushed open his door and stepped out of the cab, into the mild winter.  
         His grandparents’ house, while quaint, always filled him with a nameless dread. During his childhood, he’d pictured the rickety building to better suit a killer from the slasher films his dad let him watch. Now, he saw his childhood’s Jason Voorhees and raised it himself, 20 years later. After all, he’d seen—created—enough violence by now to know from experience how fake those movies looked.  
         As Cameron adjusted his coat, the wind blew through his slicked-up black hair, and he took a deep breath of cold air. The taxi rolled away behind him; he gave it no more than a peripheral glance.  
         He tried to convince himself that he had no reason to worry. That there was no way Max would leave him, not after everything they’d been through together in the two years since they met. Even before coming to Zürich, they’d dealt with so much more than the average couple. How many halves of those could say, with honesty, that they’d killed for the other? And though he still wasn’t sure he could reciprocate it, he knew Max loved him. With that line of thought driving him, he held his head high and strutted toward the house.  
         Under his weight, the worn wooden steps to the veranda’s screen door groaned in protest. Once he was up them, he raised his hand and rang the doorbell.  
         One second. Two. Three. Cameron glanced at the slick black watch on his right wrist: half past two. He waited. And waited.  
         No answer.  
         Finally, sucking in a steady breath, he grabbed the door’s handle and twisted it down. It came as no surprise to him that it was open; his grandparents, Dottie and Chandler, must’ve left it that way for him. Perhaps, he thought, it might be only him and Max inside. But then why wouldn’t Max have come to open the door for him?  
         “Max?” Cameron called out, desperate to break the deafening, eerie silence. “Max, I’m here.”  
         The veranda contained only its usual furnishings: two wooden rocking chairs facing the door, and a plastic mat in the corner beside them. Atop the mat were shoes; Dottie always asked visitors to take theirs off before entering. There was nothing unusual in that. What Cameron found worrisome, though, were _whose_ shoes were on the mat.  
         There, he found not the dirty gray sneakers Max left with. Only the brown leather dress shoes belonging to Chandler, and the low black slip-on heels belonging to Dottie.  
         Cameron’s dark caramel eyes, opened wide and unblinking, flew from the mat to the front door. “Max?” he repeated. Every step made with caution, he crept closer to the white door. Then, he gave it a gentle push.  
         Without any resistance, the door inched open. While Dottie might’ve left the veranda’s open to give him shelter from the cold, she would never have left the house’s ajar. Her preoccupation with personal safety wouldn’t let her.  
         Cameron opened his mouth to speak, to call out for Dottie—for anyone, but didn’t. Instead, he clamped it back shut without another word. He felt something grip his heart, threatening to squeeze until it stopped if he uttered anything more.  
         As the main hallway of the house became more and more exposed to him, he swept his gaze over everything as it appeared. The sand-colored carpeted staircase leading to the second floor. The wallpaper, white with vertical pale blue stripes. The framed pictures on the wall of Dottie, Chandler, his mother and himself; none of his father. The doorway into the back area, which led to the basement, to a small bathroom, and to the kitchen. The doorway into the living room, which led to the dining room.  
         At last, the door came to a soft halt against the spring door stop. Somehow, it wasn’t until then that Cameron noticed the smell: harsh and of iron. It was a smell all too familiar to him. The smell of blood.

* * *

Max knew how expensive it was to stay at Zürich’s Park Hyatt hotel. Over 700 U.S. dollars a night, bare minimum. It went without saying, though, that Cameron would spend more. But Max also knew he’d never rent out the _most_ expensive suite, only _one_ of the most expensive.  
         This predictable detail always confused him. It wasn’t a money problem: Cameron probably had enough in his bottomless pit of a bank account to buy out the entire damn hotel. So why did he settle for less? Was it for Max’s sake? Was it to seem humble?  
          _Humble my ass. He told me himself that this is one of the most expensive hotels in the city._  
         The flight to Switzerland, to Max, came as a surprising Christmas present. Only twelve hours ago, 8 PM on Christmas Day, they’d been in Pittsburgh. Now, half past 8 AM, they were in Zürich, sitting in the back of a limousine together. Max kept his window rolled down; as they drove, the below-zero winds whipped through his brown hair. Every so often, a stray snowflake would hit him, only to melt as fast as it appeared.  
          _I know: he must do it to complain. If there’s one thing Cameron loves more than anything, it’s finding things to destroy with a critique._  
         It seemed to be snowing outside more than it did back in Pittsburgh. Max, born and raised in Brisbane, wasn’t a fan. Already, Zürich was proving to be quite the opposite of his ideal home; it never snowed in Brisbane. Looking outside now and taking in the cold, the snowfall, the overcast sky—it all felt wrong. Though, he supposed he ought to expect all that by now. After all, eleven years had passed since he left Australia for America. Before moving to Pittsburgh with Cameron, he’d lived by himself in . . .  
         His gray eyes gazed out at the narrow Swiss street, looking but not seeing. He saw square blurs of de-saturated colors; yellow, blue, red. The dullness of them, he recognized in himself. As if his love of life, assuming it ever existed, was at some point sapped of color. It took him a few seconds to realize he’d lost his train of thought.  
         The realization made Max’s heart race. Losing his train of thought started becoming more common two months ago, after he fell from—was pushed over—a second-storey balcony and cracked his head on a stair. Since then, the most important thing he’d lost was the ability to vouch for his own mental health.  
          _Boston. I lived in Boston before . . . I think._  
         It felt surreal, the situation in which he found himself in now. Almost two years ago, he’d lived alone in a run-down Boston apartment. His only friend: his ex-girlfriend, Stacey. Now, Stacey was dead—had been for almost two years. And yet, here he was in Zürich with her murderer. On holiday, and helplessly in love.  
         At first, Max tried to deny his feelings. There was no way he could love Cameron: the man was despicable, cruel, narcissistic and psychotic. He cared for no one but himself—would take pleasure murdering anyone else.  
         It didn’t take long for Max to realize how futile denial was. Even now, it was difficult to admit his sexuality to himself. But, regardless of that, he found Cameron irresistible. With his silky black hair in a small quiff and his creamy dark ecru skin, his eyes of dark caramel and his athletic body . . . Despite his psychopathy, to Max he put an image to the word “delicious”. Apparently Cameron liked him too, with his messy brown hair, empty gray eyes, and pasty white skin that didn’t fit an Aussie. Being so scrawny, Max couldn’t help but see Cameron as a guardian. His guardian, whose protection he couldn’t escape even if he wanted to.  
         With a deep breath, Max leaned his head back against his seat and closed his tired eyes. Ever since the night terrors started in early November, sleep became foreign. Exhaustion, the norm. Cameron didn’t like to admit it, but the bags under his own eyes appeared around that time, too. Every time Max saw them, he felt guilty about keeping him up at night.  
         This unexplained trip to Switzerland, then, might’ve been an attempt to return to form. An attempt to get away from everything that weighed on his mind in Pittsburgh. Max only wished release could come so easy. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw what happened in Cameron’s basement on Halloween night. Always so clear, so detailed and vivid that it could’ve been an HD recording.  
          _So much blood . . . So much_ brutality _. Red, white, pink, red, red,_ red _—_  
         Something touching Max’s hand made him jolt. His head swung up, resuming gazing out at the city. He didn’t look, but he knew a hand—Cameron’s, no doubt—was holding his. In response, he turned his own up and entwined their fingers. Then, once established, he tightened his grip on Cameron’s digits as if it would anchor him to the present.  
         “You look so sad,” lamented the writer. Or, well, the _former_ writer; a little over a year ago was the last time Cameron had written as much as a word. Max recalled how, when they first met, Cameron had been a flourishing horror novelist. Now, he was only a rich serial killer. Why, then, did Max find himself still regarding Cameron as a writer? He assumed it had to do with how little he actually knew about him. Thinking about it now, to his knowledge, Cameron had no other redeeming talents.  
          _Other than plotting murders, if that’s redeeming._  
         Too caught up in his own thoughts, Max left Cameron’s statement hanging, ignored. Cameron said nothing else, instead looking at his watch and rubbing Max’s hand with his thumb.  
         People on the street carried on walking down the street as they drove by. Max noticed a man in a suit rushing along, one of many. A woman, too, in business attire, carrying a designer purse over her left shoulder. Everyone looked so formal. Max found himself wondering: did any of these people lead lives like his?  
          _What a bloody stupid question. How many people accidentally meet a murderous psychopath and fall in love because of it? Nobody, I reckon. Only me. Only me, because I’m sick, as sick as he is. Deep down, am I any better than him?_  
         “Things will get better, Max. Just you wait and see,” Cameron spoke out of the blue. He leaned over and kissed Max’s cheek with his soft brown lips. Then, moving up to his ear, he whispered, “She’ll be apples.”  
         Those words made the Aussie narrow his eyes. Even so, he held his tongue, lashing back only in his head.  
          _That’s what I thought when I first met you. Back when I was naïve enough to think there was no way you could be a killer. She won’t be apples; it was foolish for me to ever think that._  
         Today, December 26 th of 2017, happened to fall as a doomsday. On doomsdays, while Cameron was always happier, Max was always antsier. If the psychopath was going to kill anyone or do anything else labeled crazy, he would often do it on a doomsday. This year, that meant every Wednesday. Next year, every Thursday, if he had to guess.  
         What caused Cameron’s obsession with John Conway’s Doomsday rule would forever be unknown to Max. Despite his lack of understanding, though, he could cope with knowing about it. It gave Cameron’s otherwise random behavior a somewhat-reliable pattern. Because of it, he had a decent idea of when to panic.  
         Max didn’t realize the limousine stopped until Cameron elbowed him. “Max,” the writer said to further get his attention.  
         The Aussie at last turned his head, looking at his lover. Words ran through his head, but every time he singled out something to say, it caught in his throat.  
         Cameron’s lightly tapered eyebrows raised a bit. With a small smile on his lips, he pulled the handle on his door and stepped out of the limo.  
         Realizing that they were now at their destination, Max felt his heart flutter. He felt both anxious and excited, both emotions struggling for control of his mindset. So while half of him wanted to stay in his seat forever, the other soon managed to convince him to follow Cameron.  
         Now at the back of the limousine, Cameron stood before the popped-open trunk. From it, he pulled out their luggage; handed Max his.  
         Max’s hands were shaking at he accepted his own suitcase. If Cameron noticed, he said nothing. Instead, trunk now empty, he slammed the door closed and moved to the front. Rather than follow, Max turned his eyes onto the Park Hyatt hotel.  
         The building was huge, Max noted. Even though it looked a bit like an apartment complex from the outside, knowing how expensive the interior would look made him nervous. He noted the large windows, most revealing undrawn white curtains. If only he could see into one of the rooms from all the way down here. Then, he thought he might be able to adjust in advance.  
          _That, or it’d only terrify me further._  
         When Cameron returned to his side, it startled him. But, unaware of his inner turmoil, the writer only gave him a confident grin.  
         “Are you coming?” he asked.  
         The entrance to the hotel, made up of rotating doors, was in front of them now. A well-dressed man walked past them and the row of decorative bushes in black stands. He pushed into the hotel, disappearing inside. As more people waltzed in and out, Max noticed how no one gave even a glance to the windows next to the doors; a preview of the next-door art gallery. It felt like he was the only one appreciating the abstract artwork. The gallery reminded him of how, before leaving Boston with Cameron, he wanted to be a digital artist. He missed those days.  
         Cameron corrected the front of his coat and started making his way toward the revolving doors. He looked more fashionable, but as well-dressed as everyone else. His dark, thigh-length coat flowed behind him as he walked, ignoring the snowflakes that landed in his slick black hair.  
         Max found himself petrified, unable to bring himself to follow his lover. More than anything, he felt out of place, as he realized his own attire wasn’t up to par.  Cameron wore an expensive coat, with a suit under it and nice black dress shoes. Max, on the other hand, was only wearing a beige coat, a red zip-up hoodie, tacky grey jeans, and dirty gray sneakers. He felt like a clueless tourist. Though he figured that was fitting; “clueless tourist” were the exact words he’d use to describe himself.  
          _I can’t believe it. I’m in a whole new country. Is it possible for me to feel any more out of my element? There’s no way I’ll belong more here than I did in Boston. God, why am I here? Why are_ we _here? Couldn’t we have stayed in Pittsburgh, Cameron?_  
         If he thought he had anxiety issues before, his late head injuries only made them worse.  
          _Switzerland will only be temporary, right? At this point, I don’t think I can adjust to a new country . . ._  
         He didn’t notice that Cameron returned to him again until he stood right in front of him. For a beat, they only stared at each other. Then, the writer raised his hand and used it to stroke Max’s cheek.  
         “Do you trust me, Max?” he asked in a low, loving voice.  
         As he nuzzled against his hand for comfort, Max’s eyes met Cameron’s. He took a few seconds to digest the question. “Despite everything,” he finally answered, in a serious tone, “yes.”  
          _I shouldn’t, but I do. I trust you because you’re all I have. What does that say about me: that you’re now my only link to sanity?_  
         Cameron smiled once more, giving Max’s cheek a gentle smack of assurance as he did.  
         Max took it, knowing better than to flinch. Ever since Halloween, a fear of getting on Cameron’s bad side stifled any urges to protest. If he protested, who knew what violence the psychopath might inflict upon him?  
         In a friendly tone, Cameron urged, “Let’s check in.”  
         The Aussie responded quickly with a meek nod. As Cameron approached the revolving doors, Max remained close behind him.  
         What he noticed first about the hotel’s foyer were the polished floors, made up of black marble tiles. Already, there was a rich vibe in the air that weighed on Max like quick-drying cement. There was a warm orange lighting that made the crème-colored walls seem a vibrant shade of goldenrod. In general, Max found it made him feel sort of queasy.  
         Before them now was a hallway that was only a few feet long, but to Max seemed to stretch on forever. He’d much rather take one of the two staircases to his right, but a fear of the unknown crippled him. Besides, Cameron mightn’t appreciate him wandering off on his own.  
         When Cameron started down the hall, Max felt there was no choice but to follow him. Here, he found a smaller room, which gave him a slight sense of claustrophobia. The first thing to catch his eye was the gigantic painting on the wall, framed in black and placed above a matching leather couch. The painting itself contained long, wavy lines of scarlet, navy, white, and straw-gold. As an artist, he harbored slight appreciation for it, whatever it tried to represent. As a person, he thought it looked like a portrait of moldy spaghetti.  
          _The definition of “fine art” sure is loose nowadays, isn’t it? I mean, I guess it’s nice . . . -ish, but I could’ve made that blindfolded in a dark room._  
         Cameron made a sharp turn right, as did Max. This led them into the spacious lounge restaurant. That is, spacious but for an odd bamboo display and a humongous, spiraling art piece in the center. As Cameron approached the receptionist, Max marveled at the sight of the “artwork”.  
         The piece looked like scrap metal shaped in a coil-esque form. It looked a bit like the logo for an old video game company Max recalled from his youth. All in all, it seemed to him much like something found in a junkyard and sold for millions with a hollow, ad-libbed meaning.  
          _You know, I wasn’t cut out as an artist, anyway_ , he thought as he tilted his head at it. _What the fuck_ is _this thing?_ This _is art?_  
         “Reservation for Cameron and Max Fenn,” Cameron told the receptionist.  
         Max shot him a glance.  
          _Max Fenn? I guess he can’t give them “Aleshire”, since I’m a missing person, but . . . It sounds a little strange, doesn’t it? Me, with his surname . . ._  
         He felt himself blushing a little, running his mind over the name once more.  
          _Max Fenn . . . It doesn’t sound too bad, actually. I could get used to it._  
         Deciding he was reading too much into it, he turned to look back at the art piece. In doing so, though, he noticed someone at the far end of the lounge staring at him. So, instead, he shifted his focus to them. That was how his eyes locked with ones of sparkling dark sea foam.  
         The man across the lobby was tall, though not as tall as Cameron. His light brown hair went down to the nape of his neck, bangs hanging over his brows as if to hide part of his expression. If Max were to compare him to anyone, he’d say he looked a bit like a young Zac Efron. Yet, that comparison wasn’t able to do him justice; there was something more dapper about him. His face was thin, with large, lashed eyes and a handsome nose. Slim jawline, clean-shaven, like Cameron but somehow nicer. He wore a black suit, as did the man he stood talking to—or, rather, paying half attention to.  
         Something about the sight of the mystery man made Max’s heart skip a beat. He couldn’t take his eyes off him. It seemed this was mutual, as the man kept glancing at him with his mouth somewhat agape. Finally, though, he looked at the man talking to him, smiled, said something, and nodded. Then, they disappeared down a hall together.  
         Still gazing in that direction, Max blindly reached out and pulled on Cameron’s sleeve. “Hey,” he said, then pointed down to where the mystery man went. “Where does that lead?”  
         “One of the conference rooms, I guess,” Cameron answered. “Why?”  
         “No reason,” he lied.  
          _Who was that guy? Is he a businessman? I felt weird staring at him . . . like I laid eyes on my soulmate or something._  
         Try as he may to shake his head clear, calming the heavy beating of his heart wasn’t so easy.  
          _I’d better get my head out of the clouds. The odds of us crossing paths again are slim._  
         “Park Junior Suite, yes?” inquired the receptionist at last.  
         “That’d be us,” replied Cameron, sounding chipper.  
         “And you’re booked for a week?”  
         “Yes. I’ll pay by the day.”  
         “All right. One night comes to 1,030 francs.”  
         Cameron pulled out his wallet, nosing through the banknotes of converted currency. “Two, four, six, eight—thousand.” He slapped five 200 franc notes onto the table, then a twenty and a ten.  
         The receptionist, welcoming smile on her slim face, collected the notes. Then, she handed him a keycard. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Fenn.”  
         “Thank you.” He turned and looked at Max, who was still gazing off into the lobby. “Max?”  
         The Aussie turned. “Hmm?”  
         Cameron held up the keycard.  
         “Oh, right. Let’s go.”  
         Together they got into an elevator up to the floor their suite was on. While they were inside, Cameron abruptly said, “She forgot to ask if we wanted someone to take our bags.”  
         Max paused for a beat or two before asking, “Did we want someone to?”  
         “No, but she’s supposed to ask.”  
         “It slipped her mind, I guess.”  
         “Should be routine by this point.”  
         “She must be new, then, Cameron,” Max snapped. “What do you want me to say?”  
         “I never asked you to say anything.”  
         The elevator doors opened and they exited into the hallway. Cameron looked left, then right, then left again, as if he didn’t know which way they needed to go.  
         “Cameron?”  
         “I’ve never rented this suite before.”  
         The Aussie sunk his face into his palm. “Let’s try left, then.”  
         Chipper as ever, the writer puffed out his chest and headed to the left. Max trailed behind him, noting how this floor had the same tiles, wallpaper, and lighting as the foyer. When Cameron tried the keycard on the first door they saw, it beeped, light for the handle turning green.  
         “Oh. You were right.” Cameron didn’t sound surprised. Rather, he sounded somewhat pleased. He opened the door, then stood back, holding it open for his smaller lover. “Ladies first.”  
         “Piss off,” Max muttered. Cameron smirked, then they stepped inside.  
         While most of their suite had the same color walls as the rest of the hotel, some of it had ones of dark brown wood. It gave Max a sense of appreciation: how the bedframe matched and how the sand-colored carpet contrasted. Though, deep down, his major relief was that the carpet made him feel like he could walk without shoes on.  
         In the off-center of the room stood a black-framed glass coffee table. Atop it, Max took in the sight of a small, expensive white vase, in the shape of a teardrop. A dark red rose stuck out, catching the Aussie’s eye. It reminded him so much of his current twisted affair that he had to wonder if Cameron requested it.  
         He knew from the sight alone that if Cameron were to return to writing here, he’d use the work desk. Erected before a large window veiled by a thin white curtain, it gave the best view of Zürich possible. Max thought that might be distracting, but something told him Cameron would think otherwise.  
         On the windowsill was another vase, this one dark burgundy. Sprouting from its neck were a bundle of extravagant white orchids. Max thought their presence ironic; he and Cameron were far from innocent, as the flowers implied. Even so, he found himself drawn to them somehow.  
         The king bed had a lamp on either side, one for him and one for Cameron. Above the pillows, the artist discovered an off-white canvas, framed by the wooden wall paneling. On it, scattered clusters of browning leaves; dabs of green and brown paint. This, he thought fitting.  
         In turning away from the rest of the room, Max noticed there was another room. He entered through one of the two doorways; this tucked-away section of the suite turned out to be a bathroom.  
         Its floors and counters unfortunately re-introduced the black marble tiles, while the deep white bathtub in the middle brought Max deep confusion. As he stared at it, he wondered how, exactly, to use it. It seemed to him so misshaped that it’d be uncomfortable to sit in. But if it was, then what was it doing in such an expensive hotel?  
         Enraptured, Max stepped through the other door and back into the suite. He found Cameron sitting in front of him now, in one of the two yellow chairs behind the coffee table. Though the Aussie half-expected his face to glow like his own, instead it looked dull and bored.  
         “It’s a bit small, isn’t it?” the writer griped. As he spoke, he dug one of his sharp fingernails into the leather chair arm. Then, he closed his hand into a fist. Max registered the indent his nail left, but didn’t know why.  
         “Shut up, Cameron,” he managed to counter. He smiled as he looked around the room once more, eager to drown himself in the room’s artistry. It was so much nicer than he’d expected. “This . . . This is too much.”  
         “What, you’ve never been in a hotel like this?” Cameron waved his hand, dismissive. “This is a dime a dozen. Nothing unique here.”  
         “Still, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”  
         With a heavy sigh, the writer leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands. “I suppose the question I should be asking is: do you _like_ it?”  
         At first, the question sat well in Max’s head. Then, his train of thought snagged on the placement of Cameron’s emphasis. It rested on the word “like”. Max couldn’t help but take this to imply there was a right and a wrong answer.  
          _He sounds upset with me when he says it like that. Is he? What should I say: yes or no? Which does he want to hear?_  
         Though he felt himself quivering, Max forced a large, friendly grin onto his face. In a desperate effort to deflect the inquiry, he countered with: “Do you?”  
         After a moment’s pause, Cameron smiled back. Something in his eyes made it clear he saw right through Max’s façade. He didn’t answer, rather stood up from the chair, lengthening his tall, toned body with the grace of a figure skater. Then, he approached the bed. Taking a seat on the rightmost side, closer to the window, he slicked back his hair. The light from outside almost silhouetted him as he reached up and loosened the knot of his tie. At last, he flicked his dark caramel eyes onto Max and gave the other side of the bed a firm, seductive pat.  
         A chill shot down Max’s spine, causing him to tense up. Yet, his body moved closer anyway, as if beyond his control. Turning his back to his lover, he sat on the free side of the mattress, covered by a soft white blanket.  
         “You seem agitated,” Cameron spoke in a low voice. His hands moved up to Max’s shoulders, tracing down his arms, taking their time as they did. “Do you want to have sex?”  
         Max didn’t move. “I’m tired, Cameron.”  
         “You’ll fall asleep faster.”  
         “It’s light out. You know I don’t . . .”  
         A small huff. “Right. You only fuck when it’s dark outside.” The writer’s lascivious hands pulled away. “Which is weird, because you don’t mind if the lights are on _in_ side.”  
         “Look, maybe later, all right?”  
         That shut Cameron up. Max felt the bed sink as he laid down on it. The small, intrigued huff he heard didn’t surprise him; “maybe later” was the closest thing to a “yes” he’d given Cameron since Halloween. Whether he’d said it out of generosity or desperation, though, he wasn’t sure.  
         “Do you want to get some breakfast?” the writer inquired, tone now softer, yet somehow casual.  
         In response, Max looked at him over his shoulder with eyes draped in sardonicism. “I’m tired,” he repeated.  
         Cameron pouted his lips, then returned a slow nod of acknowledgement. Then, he sat up, stood back up, and stretched in front of the window. “Well, I’m going to take a shower.”  
         “Bath,” Max corrected as he watched Cameron make his way to the bathroom.  
         “Bath, shower. Same general neighborhood.” The writer disappeared through the closest door way, but then poked his head back out. His soft lips curled up, shifting his expression into a seductive leer. “You’re welcome to join me.”  
         “I don’t think that tub can fit one person, let alone two,” joked the Aussie.  
         “Are you kidding? Nah, we can both fit. You’re small enough.”  
         Max shook his head and held up a hand in reluctance. “No thanks.”  
         Cameron blinked at him, then shrugged. “Your loss.” Again, he disappeared from view. A few seconds later, the bathtub’s faucet started running.  
         Max let out a weary, anxious sigh. He kicked off his sneakers before pulling his legs up onto the bed. Then, at last, he allowed himself to lie down.  
          _Oh, my God. It’s so firm. Comfortable, too. But somehow, I still can’t tell if this is heaven or hell._  
         Only a minute or two went by before he found himself thinking about the stranger in the lobby. Try as he may to remove him from his mind, he couldn’t. For some reason, he felt certain they’d see each other again.  
          _I bet he wasn’t even staring at me because he felt the same way. He might’ve stared because I look out of place here. But then why did he seem so . . . surprised? So entranced by me, as I was by him?_  
         Defeated and uncertain, he turned onto his side and gazed at the shimmering curtain. The potted orchids seemed to radiate a comforting vibe. It might not be Brisbane, but the gorgeous suite would make a decent place to rest for a while, he figured. So, focusing on the soothing white petals and the steady stream of water in the bathroom, Max let his heavy lids drift shut.


	2. Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 2nd, 2018.

Val Kozel’s screams stayed with Max almost as much as August Lund’s brutal murder. He still remembered—would never forget—the sound of every individual smack against his head. Every crack of his skull as it smashed open, every splat of the cane colliding with his exposed brain. How could one man, with one object, do so much damage to another? Cameron’s inhuman strength was terrifying on its own, never mind the poor Danish man suffering because of it. In trying to stop the writer, all he’d got was a hit across the head himself. August’s blood on his face. Val wouldn’t stop screaming. He’d only sat there, watching. Watching August die in Cameron’s basement. Because of him. Because he’d helped. Because he’d chained August down there himself.  
          “ _August_!”  
          Max awoke with a jolt. The first thing he saw was the window of their hotel room. It was dark outside now. The lights in the room were on, but dim. As he lay there, panting in a cold sweat, he suddenly wanted to cry.  
           _All my fault. All my fault. It was all my fault. I’m as guilty as Cameron is. I have August’s blood on my hands . . ._  
          “Hey.”  
          It was Cameron’s voice that made him twitch and flip over. The writer was lying in bed beside him, which made him realize that in his sleep he’d gravitated closer to the middle. He gazed at him for a moment, not bothering to mask his anguished expression. Though he didn’t seem concerned, there was a certain sincerity on his face that he appreciated regardless.  
          “Nightmares?”  
          Max nodded, afraid that he’d burst into tears if he tried to talk.  
          “Of August?” The fact that he even knew was surprising. To Max, it showed he cared, at least a little. So, he nodded again, then hugged Cameron tight. It felt wrong, to hug August’s murderer while crying over the murder itself, but who else was there to hold? The psychopath didn’t quite return the embrace, but he did place his hand on Max’s back. “I’m just glad you were able to sleep for once.”  
          “Did I scream?” Max asked, face pressed against Cameron’s bare chest. He was dry, but lying there wearing only a towel around his waist. What to think of that, he didn’t know.  
          “No, but you started thrashing a bit toward the end there.”  
          Being held by someone was comfort enough for Max. He’d never cuddled with anyone like this before now, not even with Cameron, who wasn’t big on affection. He hadn’t thought he was either; Stacey had always wanted to cuddle, but it felt too awkward, so he assumed he didn’t like it. But now, lying in Cameron’s arms, he felt so safe . . . which was sort of ironic, in all honesty. He took a deep breath, took in the writer’s scent.  
          “Cameron, could you . . . hold me like this more often?”  
          At first, he gave no answer. Despite this, Max appreciated the silence. Only silence and the sweet smell and warmth of his beloved. Then, out of the blue, a response in the form of a question:  
          “Does it make you feel better?”  
          It was a strange question, coming from a psychopath. Max wanted to look up at him, but didn’t, not wanting to alienate him with an unintentional weird look.  
           _Ah, I get it. He’s only asking because if I feel better, then maybe I won’t scream in the night and wake him up._ Then, he felt guilty again. _He must be exhausted, too._  
          “Yeah,” he answered.  
          Again, a beat of silence. When Cameron’s draped arm gripped him into more of an embrace, he wasn’t sure how to react.  
          “I guess so,” said the writer, answering his original question.  
          Max smiled a troubled smile. For a few minutes, the two of them remained like this. He never wanted this moment of serenity to end. Cameron’s nose nuzzled into his hair; he felt the air on his scalp as he took a deep, smooth inhale. Therein arose the sexual tension, which made Max’s smile slip. Tentative, he pulled his arm away, ending his half of the embrace. When Cameron leaned in for a kiss, he pulled back further.  
          “Cameron,” he warned.  
          The writer didn’t seem too fazed by the rejection. Catching his footing, he gave Max a small grin as he propped himself up on an elbow. “Listen,” he said, “let’s go get dinner.” He got out of bed, holding the towel up as he did. He headed to the closet on the other side of the room and opened it, revealing that he’d unpacked their bags while Max was asleep.  
          The Aussie sat up in bed. “Where are we going?”  
          “There’s a restaurant in the hotel. ‘Parkhouse’ or something.”  
          “Park _huus_?”  
          “Yeah, whatever. Close enough.”  
          Max looked at the window—at how dark it was outside. “Is it open right now?”  
          “It’s only six. I read that it’s open from now until eleven.”  
          Deciding to believe him, he shrugged and stood. After looking down at what he was wearing, still so casual, he became awkward. “Um . . . I feel like I should—”  
          “Change? Yes.” Cameron pulled a suit out from the closet and tossed it on the hangar toward Max. It landed on the floor a few inches short, but neither felt compelled to hurry and pick it up. “Put that on.”  
          Max bent down and grabbed the suit off the floor. As he stepped over to the bed, he heard Cameron’s towel slump to the floor.  
           _Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look._  
          He looked. What greeted his snooping eyes was the sight of Cameron’s firm ass cheeks, shaped much like a heart. He reached into the bottom of the closet and pulled out a pair of briefs to slip on as Max stared. Sensing the eyes on him and unashamed, he turned his upper body to gaze back at him.  
          “I thought you didn’t want sex.”  
          Max tore his eyes away. “Just because I check you out doesn’t mean I want sex.”  
          “Sure, sure.”  
          Rolling his eyes, the Aussie unzipped his sweater and started to strip. When he got down to his briefs, he felt Cameron step closer all of a sudden. His arms wrapped around him, pelvis close to his backside. The sensation sent a warm chill to Max’s loins, but he attempted to break free anyway.  
          “Cameron, no.”  
          “You sure?”  
          “No!”  
          “Oh?”  
          “I mean yes!”  
          “Yes?”  
          “Yes, I’m sure I don’t want this!”  
          Cameron snickered. His tongue slithered across Max’s left cheek.  
          “Apples.” Max’s safeword was what made the writer finally pull back.  
          “All right, fine. Get dressed.” He turned back to his suit and started to pull on his pants. Max turned his head to watch him do this before getting dressed himself.  
          A few minutes later, they’d made their way down to Parkhuus. The centerpiece of the warm-lit restaurant was the open view into the kitchen. Chefs pattered about to and fro, cooking food for the guests. Cameron and Max got a seat nearer to one of the walls. There was only one table behind Cameron, in Max’s line of sight. As was his way, he tried to avoid looking at the two seated at it.  
          “What do you want to eat?” Cameron asked him in advance.  
          Max only shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. The restaurant felt . . . rich. He would’ve felt more comfortable in a fast food restaurant or something. “Um, you know me, Cameron. I’m not, uh, picky.”  
           _What if I pick wrong?_ Can _I pick wrong? What if I ask for something they don’t have or embarrass myself somehow? What if I embarrass Cameron somehow? It’s better if I let him choose for me. I’m not too hungry, anyway._  
          Right on cue, a waiter appeared to take their orders.  
          “Two of whatever the chef recommends,” said Cameron, “and a bottle of white wine.”  
          Even the word “wine” was enough to make Max glare at Cameron.  
           _I thought he was done with wine. The last time he drank wine, he murdered someone. He murdered August. I thought he was done with wine!_  
          As the waiter scurried away to deliver the order and fetch their wine, Cameron flashed him a dark smirk. The Aussie struggled to keep his composure, though he felt he’d die. His muscles, though lax, felt tense. This included his heart. He felt short of breath. It’d been a while since he’d had an anxiety attack on this scale, but he thought he was able to handle it quite well.  
          “You look scared,” taunted the psychopath. “What’s the matter? It’s only wine. Not even red wine.”  
           _Yes, that much is a comfort. If I ever see red wine again, I might snap._  
          The waiter returned with a bottle of Riesling, then left them again to tend to other guests. Cameron poured two glasses half-full with the straw-colored liquid. Though he gave one to Max, the Aussie’s immediate response was to put it back down on the table, untouched. As the writer sloshed the wine in his glass, he took a whiff of it.  
          “I guess we’ll be eating fish,” he observed before taking a sip. “Or beef.”  
          Max raised a brow. He felt uncultured all of a sudden.  
          “How are you doing?”  
          “I don’t know.”  
          “Fair enough.” He gazed off past Max, deeper into the restaurant. “So, I’m thinking of picking up writing again.”  
          The artist felt a twitch coming on, was unable to stop himself from flinching at nothing. “That’s . . . good.”  
          “I’m hoping that Zürich can serve as decent inspiration. What do you think?”  
           _What do I think? I haven’t a fuckin’ clue, Cameron. What do you look to as inspiration? Murder?_  
          “You should definitely start writing again,” Max said, deflecting once more.  
          Cameron held the glass in both hands and looked up dreamily. “See, I had an idea last month. It’s about . . .”  
          Max watched Cameron’s lips as they moved, but stopped listening. Not because he was bored; no, he was interested to hear Cameron’s idea. Because he was upset. But what about, he wasn’t sure. In his daze, he finally took a glance at the couple at the table behind theirs, only to discover they weren’t a couple at all. Max’s heart flew to his throat.  
           _Oh, you’ve got to be kidding._  
          There sat the mystery man with the same guy he’d been talking to before. They were also waiting for food, it seemed. He watched them as they chattered, both amused and enjoying themselves. The other guy said something that made the handsome one laugh, then he joined in. Max basked in the sounds, isolating the mystery man’s in his head.  
           _Laughter . . . I’d almost forgotten what that sounded like. I like his. It sounds kind of cute._  
          The mystery man had cocked his head away during the laugh. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Max; their eyes met once more. The same nervous flutter arose in the Aussie’s stomach. With a glance, the man checked on his partner. Seeing that he was currently gazing down at the table, he returned his eyes to Max. Then, he gave him a soft, coy smile and discreetly raised his glass at him. The gesture made Max’s heart flip in his chest. He couldn’t stop himself from beaming back an awkward, flattered grin.  
          “Max, are you listening?”  
          The Aussie tore his eyes away from the man behind Cameron to look at the writer himself. There was a look of obvious displeasure on his face, which made him feel nervous in a different way.  
          “Yes,” he mumbled.  
           _Please don’t ask me to repeat what you said. Please don’t ask me that._  
          Suspicion for a few beats more. Then, his face softened. He reached a hand out, placing it over Max’s on the table. Underneath the dangling tablecloth, where no one could see, his foot moved closer and rubbed against his. Again, a warm feeling in the Aussie’s loins. He felt his face starting to flush, so he moved his free hand up to his mouth and leaned against it.  
          “Your brows furrow when you’re aroused,” crooned Cameron.  
          “Cameron, could we not?”  
          “Why?”  
          “Because we’re in the middle of a restaurant!” the Aussie hissed.  
          Suddenly, the waiter returned, making Max jump. He put two plates of food down on the table, one in front of him, the other in front of Cameron.  
          “Oh, never mind. I was wrong,” Cameron said in mild surprise. “It’s chicken.”  
          The waiter left, then Cameron smirked at Max again. Fork in one hand, knife in the other, he let out on a seductive growl: “Let’s dig in.”  
          He wasn’t too sure what happened next. They must’ve finished eating and returned to their room, because next thing he knew, they were in bed together. On top of him, the writer kissed at his neck, sucked on his Adam’s apple. Max held him close and let out a low moan as his tongue traced the underside of his chin.  
          “Cameron . . .”  
          They’d learned together, almost by accident, that one of Max’s biggest turn-ons was being licked. Of course, for the Aussie, there was always a moral conflict in getting aroused by it. After all, they’d discovered it because Cameron had licked August’s blood off his face moments after the murder. Being able to get off after such a gruesome scene was Max’s first real sign that he was as warped as the killer himself. What he’d yet to determine was whether he’d always been that way, or if Cameron had changed him.  
          When Cameron unzipped his pants, he realized how out of it he felt. It was like he was having an out-of-body experience, watching this happen to someone else. As if he couldn’t cope with the idea of having sex with Cameron anymore, so he had to project it onto someone else. Watch, he could do. Experience, not so much.  
          His eyes watched, but didn’t pay attention, as Cameron rolled on a condom. A few seconds—or more?—later, he zoned back in when he felt a hand on his face.  
          “Max, are you still with me here?” the writer inquired.  
          Max stared up at him, tilted his head in mild confusion. He tried to figure out what he’d said. Then came the tears, before he could stop them. Cameron’s tapered brows twisted in what might’ve been concern as the Aussie started making quiet sobs.  
          “Oh, geez, come on,” he groaned, sounding uncomfortable. “Don’t start crying.”  
          Max’s lips trembled. He felt a smile coming on.  
           _I don’t even know why I’m crying anymore._  
          The look of concern on Cameron’s face only intensified when Max started to laugh through his tears. As reassurance, he raised his pale hand to his lover’s dark face and fiddled with his ear.  
          “Do what you want, Cameron. I’m okay.”  
          Cameron stayed still. Finally, albeit awkward, he nodded. “If you say so . . .” He grabbed Max’s legs, moved them outward. When he felt him enter, the Aussie choked out a wet, emotional moan. Then he started laughing again. This caused Cameron to pull out, which in turn made him lift his head to look at him. He watched the writer as he stood up, shaking his head.  
          “I can’t do this,” he said and reached down to remove the condom.  
          Max felt a surge of panic in his chest.  
           _Release. I need release. This could help me unwind. I_ need _this._  
           _No don’t leave me please._  
          Rather than say any of these words, he instead opted to lunge up from the bed and grab Cameron’s shirt collar. Pulling him in close, they locked lips. Even despite this, though, he watched from the corner of his eye as Cameron pulled off the condom. He pulled back in concern and searched the writer’s eyes for frustration or anger. Instead, he saw reluctance and . . . worry?  
          “It can wait,” he said, sounding strangely compassionate.  
           _What’s the catch? How’s he going to punish me?_  
          “Cameron, no,” he stammered in fear. “I-it’s fine, really.”  
          Again, the dark-skinned writer shook his head and stood up. He reached down, pulled up and redid his pants. As he grasped the belt, Max’s fright intensified.  
           _He’s going to beat me with that. He’ll rip it off and whip me with it._  
          But he didn’t. Rather, he did it up. After straightening his tie and blazer, he took a steadying breath, though he still fidgeted where he stood. Max could still see his erection pressing against the front of his pants, but it was beginning to fall limp.  
          “I’m, uh . . . gonna go . . . um . . .” He waved his hand about in some sort of flustered gesture. “I don’t know. I’ll be back later.”  
          “Cameron”—Max tried to call out after him, but he rushed out of the room too fast, closing the door behind himself. For a few minutes, Max only sat on the bed, knees pressed close to his chest.  
           _Why didn’t he punish me? I pushed him away. Better yet, why’d he back away like that? He doesn’t care about how I feel or what I want. What made him change his mind about having sex with me?_  
           _Maybe he doesn’t want me anymore. Did I alienate him? Even him? Fuck. God, no, please don’t let that be it. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he leaves me here? Fuck!_  
           _No, no. No, Max, you’re . . . You’re overthinking it. Oh, please God let me be overthinking it._  
          He wouldn’t be able to handle losing someone this way again. He’d lost Stacey because he pushed her away too many times. Not Cameron, too. If Cameron left him, he’d lose his mind. Insanity was only a small push away, he could feel it. Losing Cameron would be like taking that small push and turning it into the full slam of a wrecking ball.  
           _Who knows what I’d do if I lost it? I don’t want to find out. I’m so scared of becoming worse than him . . ._  
          So he sat like that, waiting in dreadful anxiety, for half an hour. After another twenty-five minutes, he was starting to lose hope. Then, his head shot up at the sound of the keycard lock beeping. A small pause. The door inched open. Cameron entered carefully, shutting the door with a gentle push. When he turned and saw Max sitting right where he’d left him, staring at him, he failed to cover up a slight jolt of surprise.  
          “Max . . . Why are you still up? I thought you’d try to sleep.”  
          “I was afraid you weren’t coming back,” whimpered the Aussie. Under normal circumstances, he might’ve kicked himself at how pathetic he sounded, but right now he didn’t care.  
          The surprise drained from Cameron’s face, replaced by something that Max couldn’t put a word to. Was it relief? Compassion? Love?  
           _I doubt it. But I can’t figure out what that look is . . . He looks touched, somehow?_  
          With a light sigh, Cameron removed his blazer, draping it over one of the yellow chairs. Once he’d stepped over to the bed, he removed his shoes. Max took this time to lean up to kiss him. The writer sat down on the bed beside him, but rather than return the kiss, he said,  
          “Lie down.”  
          Eager to please, Max obeyed. What surprised him was Cameron’s arms wrapping around him. His head wound up pressed against his chest again. For a long moment, he wasn’t sure how to react.  
           _What is this? He’s stroking my hair now . . ._  
          “Get some rest, Max.”  
          “Wh— . . . What are you— . . . ?”  
          “You asked me to hold you like this more often.”  
          Max felt his lips start to quiver with emotion. “You aren’t acting like yourself, Cameron.”  
          “Yeah, well, neither are you, so I think I have an excuse.”  
          The Aussie made a brief, sad laugh. As he snuggled closer to Cameron’s chest, he tried not to get his tears on his dress shirt.


	3. Restless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 3rd, 2018.

There was a restaurant in Boston that he and Stacey used to frequent when they were dating. Now, he found himself sitting inside it, across from her. He watched as she brushed her black bangs back behind her ear and stirred her drink with a straw. Her pale olive skin looked soft, matching with her olive green long-sleeved shirt. Draped across the back of her seat was her white wool coat.  
           _I recognize this. This is the last time I spoke to her . . ._  
          She looked so beautiful, still very much the prettiest girl in Boston. When her bold-lashed hazel eyes flicked up to meet his, he twitched. He watched as her luscious pink lips stretched out into a smile. Then, she laughed before taking a meek sip of her drink.  
           _Stacey . . . Oh, God, Stacey. Why did Cameron have to kill you, of all people?_  
          “You know, I’ve missed you, Max,” she said, voice solemn. A sad voice with a happy undertone, like a blessing to his ears. It sounded so real. Through his silence, she stared at the ice cubes in her drink.  
          It was impossible to know what woke him up. Was it guilt? Grief? Or something uncontrollable on his part, like a knock at the door or a sound in a neighboring room? Regardless, he took a moment to gaze at the wall—at the unmoving curtains in the dark room. He felt alone, so he sat up and looked to his right. Cameron was lying there, back turned to him. Judging by his deep, steady breathing, he was asleep.  
           _At least I didn’t wake him for once. When’s the last time I woke up on my own like this?_  
          Max took a long moment to gaze at Cameron as he slept. He leaned over in bed to see his face.  
           _He looks so innocent when he’s asleep . . . I could do anything I want right now. Run away, free myself from him that way. Or . . ._  
          His eyes fell onto his pillow. He pictured it.  
           _It’d be so easy to smother him. It’s not too late to avenge Stacey—to avenge August and Val, and everyone else he’s killed. To avenge myself._  
          It wasn’t until he’d gripped the pillow that he tore his hands away, as if the covers burned him.  
           _Bloody hell! What am I doing? I can’t kill him!_  
          The Aussie got out of bed, being careful not to wake Cameron. Then, he reached around blind until he found his pants.  
           _I need to get out of here for a bit. Take a walk through the hotel or something, get my mind off of this . . . I’m afraid what I’ll do if I stay._  
          He pulled on his dress pants, but then changed his mind. Using what little light seeped into the room, he moved through the dark. As silent as he could be, he stripped, then slipped on his jeans, hoodie, and jacket. Now feeling a lot more comfortable, he carefully pulled open the door. Then, he stopped.  
           _Almost locked myself out like a twat. Where did Cameron put the keycard?_  
          The first thing he decided to check was Cameron’s blazer, as it was closest to him. As the door drifted shut, he made his way to the leather chairs. Hardly able to see a thing, he rummaged through the pockets. When he found a mysterious plastic bag in one, he didn’t investigate.  
           _Whatever’s in that bag is his business. Who knows what kind of trouble I’ll get myself into if I stick my nose into it?_  
          Finally, he found the keycard, in which pocket he wasn’t sure. Into one of his hoodie’s pockets it went. Then, he returned to the door. After opening it again, he paused for a beat. He half expected to hear Cameron stand up or say something after him. Instead, there was only silence.  
           _I’m still in the clear. He’s fast asleep . . . or, at least, pretending to be._  
          He took his time closing the door behind himself as he stepped out into the hallway. Its dark marble floors made the crème walls pop in the orange lighting. His body language became reserved, shoulders tensed and hands dug into his pockets. At first, he didn’t want to move away from the door. Part of him wanted to return inside at once. The other reminded him of his worrying thoughts.  
           _If I go back in there right now, I might hurt Cameron, or make him hurt me. But I’m scared to be on my own . . .  
          Ugh, shut up. I’m a 21-year-old man . . . Given, a 21-year-old man who’s pretty small compared to most. But that doesn’t give me an excuse to act like such a bloody child. I need to stop being so bloody dependent on him! I can handle myself. Did that for at least a couple of years before all this, anyhow . . ._  
          Max straightened himself, holding his head up and chest out like he’d watched Cameron do. It tended to make the writer look bigger and more confident, so why couldn’t it do the same for him?  
           _I feel like a kid seeing his dad do something and mimicking him . . . God, this is stupid._  
          With his faux bravado, he made his way down the hall and to the elevator. Once inside, he pushed the button for the lobby. Then, he stood still in the center of the lift as the doors closed and it started to move down. It was quiet but for the faint jingle playing through speakers above him. Max didn’t pay much attention to the tune.  
          There were a few people sitting at the tables in the lobby. The Aussie made a point of avoiding looking at any of them, picking an isolated table near the back to sit at. Once he’d sat, he pulled out his phone. It was half past midnight. As usual, no texts nor calls from anybody. The only contact on this device was Cameron. At first, Max had thought it was a mistake on Cameron’s part, to trust him with his own cellphone. After a few days, though, he realized he still didn’t have the balls to call the police. If he did, it’d have to be to turn himself in: he’d had a hand in the deaths of August and Val. Not to mention, he was likely the main suspect in Stacey’s murder. As far as he knew, he was the last person seen with her. His motive: she’d broken up with him a few months prior.  
          Max sighed, felt tempted all of a sudden to try calling Stacey. He still remembered her number by heart. What would happen if he sent a text? Would it be a recycled number now, or only out of service?  
           _One day, when I have even less to lose. One day, I’ll try texting her number._  
          Someone cleared their throat right next to him. Startled, he whipped his head up. Standing beside him was the handsome mystery man. The sight of him caused Max’s heart to get caught in his throat.  
          “Hello,” he said. “Is this seat taken?”  
          Max stared, blinking sporadically.  
           _Wow, his voice. It’s a lot higher than I expected. For some reason, I thought it’d be deep. But I like this better, actually. Surprising, but . . . somehow fitting._  
          “Are you all right?”  
          The Aussie snapped from his trance. “Huh? Oh, shit, sorry. No, it’s, uh . . . I’m not expecting anyone.”  
          With a friendly smile, the man pulled out the chair to Max’s right and sat down in it. He was still wearing his suit, but this time the blazer was open, orange tie from before missing.  
          “Sorry about barging into your personal space like this,” muttered he, “but I recognized you from before and couldn’t help myself. We’ve been sharing looks all day. Can’t be a coincidence that we see each other again at such an odd hour.” He looked a little flustered himself, smile turning coy. Max found this a bit cute, try as he may to deny it.  
          “Right,” replied the Aussie. “Um, no worries. I understand.”  
          The man held out his hand for a handshake. “Name’s Ashton Oliver Sinclair. You can call me ‘Ash’, though.”  
          Max reluctantly took Ash’s hand in his. It was soft, like he’d never worked a day in his life. This wasn’t foreign to Max; his and Cameron’s were more or less the same. Ash’s felt somehow silkier, though.  
           _Does he use lotion or something?_  
          Ash’s grip was firm; as he shook Max’s hand, he placed his other palm on the back of it. A few seconds later, when the handshake was over but his hand was still held, the artist finally realized why.  
          “Uh, Max. My name’s Max.”  
          Another brief but firm shake. The man’s eyes squinted through his professional grin. “Nice to finally meet you.”  
           _Finally?_ Max cocked a side of his mouth up in an awkward smirk, but didn’t say anything. Finally, Ash let go of his hand, only to lean back in his chair. It took Max a second to realize he did so to match him. _Definitely a businessman, then. Don’t they tend to mimic people?_  
          “So, what brings you to Zürich, Max?”  
          The Aussie moaned in thought, then shrugged. “Holidays, I guess. Travelling. No real reason.” _At least, I don’t_ think _Cameron has a reason. It’s a good question, though. I should ask him._ “You?”  
          Ash shrugged as well. “Business.”  
           _Could’ve guessed that. Would it be rude to ask what he does?_  
          Before he could ponder this, Ash answered the unspoken question on his own: “I’m an auditor. Internal, for a financial branch back in Massachusetts.”  
          Max cocked his head a bit. “Massachusetts? I used to live in Boston.”  
          Because of his bangs, Max could only tell that Ash raised his brows due to the widening of his eyes. “Is that so? Well, I guess I know now why I always had some weird fondness for that god-awful state.”  
          Max felt a warm bubbling in his chest, which then evolved into laughter. Seeing him laugh, Ash joined in. For the first time in a long time, the Aussie felt giddy, like he was talking to an old friend—a true kindred spirit.  
          “I’m curious. You’re staying in one of the suites, right?”  
          Figuring there couldn’t be much harm in telling him, Max answered: “Yes.”  
          “Which one?”  
          Then, out of the blue, anxiety.  
           _Don’t trust so easily. The last time you did that, you befriended a serial killer and got your girlfriend killed.  
          But . . . Come on. What are the odds of _him _being a killer, too? He’s charming, more so than Cameron was. I feel like I can trust him a lot more than Cameron._  
          “Park Junior. Or, uh, something like that.”  
          Ash whistled. “Not bad. I’m in the Park Executive Suite, myself. Second most expensive king bed suite in the hotel. Almost two and a half thousand dollars a night.”  
          The words “king bed” echoed in Max’s head like reverberations in a large tunnel. “Oh, so . . . You’re here with someone?”  
          Ash raised only one brow this time, again only visible due to his eyelids.  
          “Girlfriend, perhaps?”  
          “No,” the auditor snapped, sea foam eyes narrowing. Then, as quickly as it’d shifted, his face returned to its casual expression, as did his tone. “Girls aren’t really my, uh . . . ‘cup of tea’, so to speak.”  
          “Oh. You’re . . . ?”  
          “I don’t see a problem in admitting it to a fellow homosexual.”  
          It was Max’s turn to narrow his eyes. “What makes you think I’m gay?”  
          Ash blinked. His eyes fell onto Max’s left hand, on the table. “I saw you with another man, who made the reservations. Then, I saw you two having dinner together. To be honest, I wasn’t sure, though; you’re not wearing a ring, so clearly you’re not married. But you didn’t strike me as boyfriends, either. Only lovers, if anything. I realized I was right when you told me you’re saying in the Park Junior Suite. That one only has one bed, as well”—his eyes met Max’s—“a king bed.”  
          Max stared at him for a long moment. Realizing he’d sat up in his chair, he decided to lean back again. “Well, you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”  
          Thankfully, Ash took that as a compliment and let out a flattered snicker as he leaned back, too. “Hey, do you want a coffee or something?”  
          “Nah, no thanks, mate. I’d like to go back to sleep sometime this decade.”  
          “You sure? You look exhausted.” Max nodded. “Decaffeinated tea, then?”  
          This offer was a little bit more tempting. He looked away in thought as he considered it.  
          “Yeah?” asked Ash, grinning.  
           _I mean . . . I might as well, right? It might make me tired as long as it’s decaffeinated._  
          Finally, the Aussie nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”  
          “Splendid.” Ash jumped to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”  
          As he walked away, Max reached out toward him a bit. “Hey, wait, don’t . . .”  
           _. . . leave me on my own here._  
          He watched as the auditor made a beeline for the kitchen area for looking away, back to his phone. It was 12:35 AM now.  
           _Was that really only five minutes? It felt longer._  
          When the clock hit 12:37, Ash returned with two elegant-looking teacups in saucers. He offered one to Max, who took it, meek.  
          “Thanks.”  
          “You’re welcome.” Ash took his seat again. The tea was much too hot for Max to drink yet, so he blew on it. Meanwhile, the auditor took a sip of the scalding liquid like it was already lukewarm.  
          “Wow. Doesn’t that burn?”  
          Ash shrugged again, this time in a dismissive way. “I’ve been drinking hot coffee most of my life. Guess I’m used to it by now.”  
          “Guess so . . .”  
          Ash placed his cup back into its saucer, then the saucer onto the table. As he leaned forward, he placed one leg over the other. “I don’t mean to pry or anything, but what do you do for a living?”  
          This question made Max’s blood run cold. “Um . . . Well . . .” A nervous titter. “Nothing. I’m . . . unemployed.”  
          It seemed like a bad answer. “Hm. What about your lover?”  
          “He’s a writer, but he’s in medical school, so . . .”  
          Dismissing the added post-secondary education, Ash leaned back again. He had a snarky, amused look on his face. Sort of snobbish. “A writer? Heh. Not much money to be made in _that_ , is there?”  
          “I, uh, suppose not . . .”  
          “I assume he’s contracted with someone? What publishing agency does he write for?”  
          Max fidgeted with his sleeve a little. He gave his head a small shake. “I don’t know.”  
          “Is he not?”  
          “I don’t think so. I think he’s independent.”  
          Ash rolled his eyes so hard that people across the room might’ve seen it, were they looking. “And he doesn’t do anything on the side?”  
          “Well, he does charity work sometimes . . .”  
          “Where does he get his money from, then? No, wait, let me guess.” He pouted his lips, then crooned, “Daddy dearest?” Then, he beamed in amusement.  
          This time, Max decided not to answer. Noticing this, Ash laughed. He reached over and patted Max’s shoulder in a friendly manner.  
          “I’m only teasing. At least he’s not broke, right?”  
          “I guess . . .”  
          The auditor’s expression sobered. “Sorry. I can tell I’ve made you uncomfortable.”  
          Max gave him a troubled smirk. “No, it’s fine. It’s just, before I met Cameron, I”—he snapped his mouth shut.  
           _Shit. I didn’t mean to tell him Cameron’s name._  
          “Yes?”  
          The Aussie raised his hand and waved so as to dismiss the subject. “Never mind.”  
          Ash pulled back his sleeve, turning his attention onto the expensive watch on his left wrist. “Hmm. I’d better go back to my suite. I’ve got some work to finish.” His eyes returned to Max. “Any chance I could get your number?”  
          Bewildered, Max blinked before asking, “My what?” When he made a discreet glance toward the phone in his hand, he tensed a bit. “Um . . .”  
           _Cameron checks this every so often. What would he think if he saw a new contact?_  
          “Nah, you know what?” From the inner pocket of his blazer, the auditor pulled out a notebook with a pen in its coil. He set it on the table, wrote something on one of the pages, then ripped it out. After folding it, he handed it to Max. “In case you want to talk before we happen to bump into each other again.”  
          Max reluctantly took the paper. “Thanks.” _I guess . . ._  
          Ash stood up again, leaving his teacup on the table. “Don’t worry, I already paid for these.” Then, he gave Max a casual wave. “Until we meet again, Maxie.” Before the nickname could sink in, he’d made a brisk-walked escape from the lobby.  
          Max sat still for a few moments, processing everything that’d happened in the past ten or so minutes.  
           _“Maxie”? Bloody hell, sounds like the pad brand._  
          He looked at the paper in his hands and unfolded it. There was a cellphone number written there. Above it, “You’re welcome to text me anytime. ~ Ash”.  
           _To be honest, he seems like a bit of a rich snob. Definitely got tickets on himself. I used to hate his type. Was it Cameron who changed that? Whatever the case . . . I kind of like this bloke._ He folded the paper and slipped it into one of his coat’s pocket. Realizing that he was blushing a bit, he tried to shake it away. Then, he picked up his teacup and finally took a small sip.  
           _Nope, fuck that. Still too hot._


	4. Introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 4th, 2018.

What woke Cameron up was Max’s loud groaning. For once, he wasn’t screaming, but as he thrashed on the other side of the bed, he moaned in his sleep like he was dying. Groggy, the writer sat up and rubbed his eyes before looking down at his partner.  
          The part of Max that moved the most was his head, swinging back and forth. Whenever he didn’t sleepwalk, he had a seizure-like fit in bed. Cameron didn’t know which one disrupted his sleep more.  
          “ _Aah_ , _no_ . . .” cried the Aussie as he squirmed. “ _No_ . . . ! _Cameron_ , _don’t_ . . . ! _Nooo_ . . . !”  
          Cameron watched in silence. It was common for Max to call out his name like that during his night terrors. Though, it always made him wonder what he was doing in it to get such a reaction. Was he thinking about what he did to August, or imagining that he’d turned against him? He knew that Max always feared that; the day he’d see him as a target. If he was honest, Cameron had been waiting for that day for a while now. For some reason, it never came, though. The thought of murdering Max wasn’t a pleasant one. There was too much to lose in killing him. Unlike August, Max was useful to him. Useful, like . . .  
          As he gazed at Max, he felt his face soften. As he threw his head about, his hair had almost changed styles. Now, it nearly covered his left eye. The darkness of the room made it seem darker itself, almost black. He’d always thought Max looked like his late boyfriend, Julian. But now, the resemblance was uncanny.  
          Uncomfortable, he pulled his eyes away. Did he feel more for Max than he’d felt for Julian? It was hard to tell—feeling in general was so new to him. He always tried to distance himself from it unless it was beneficial. Falling in love with Max was not beneficial. In fact, if anything, it was a liability. So, while he knew Max was in love with him (though he never said it to his face), he denied to himself that he was capable of reciprocating. He was a psychopath. Psychopaths were incapable of love . . . weren’t they?  
          His argument seemed nullified by what he’d done the night prior after leaving the hotel room. Depending on how he looked at it, though, it was possible it _helped_ it instead. The bag he’d left in the pocket of his blazer contained something he was rather unnerved by, if he was honest. Until he was sure of what he wanted to do with it, it would remain hidden away out of both his sight and Max’s.  
          When Max’s cries grew a little louder, he finally looked back at him. He knew the Aussie was suffering; he understood that. The difficult part was caring—emphasizing. When he was a kid, he’d tried to teach himself empathy through mimicry. When he was a teenager, he learned it couldn’t be taught if it wasn’t felt.  
          With a huff, he tried to think about what to do. Clearly, watching Max wasn’t any help at all. In a few minutes, the Aussie might stop. But given his history, it was also possible he’d start screaming soon and carry on with it for an hour or more. The last thing he needed was for someone to call the front desk with a noise complaint.  
          “ _Stace_ . . .”  
          Cameron tensed for a second. Now _that_ was a name he’d never heard Max cry out in his sleep. He’d almost thought the Aussie had forgotten about his ex-girlfriend by now. After all, he’d explained why he did it when it happened. Now, he realized he must’ve underestimated Max’s sentimentality. Even if Stacey had cheated on him, he’d still been friends with her. So, he made sure to save him from that. Max had yet to forgive him for that good deed. Why couldn’t he understand that he only did it to help him?  
          Well, perhaps that was a lie. He might not have done it if not for her being an obstacle. As long as she was around, there was always the chance she might take Max back, away from him. So, she needed to be dealt with. Cameron had much enjoyed murdering her.  
          Finally, an idea. The writer waited for Max to lower his arms. Then, he laid down again and reached his arms out. At first, Max struggled against the embrace.  
          “ _No_ . . . _No_!”  
          “Max, shh. It’s me. I’m here.” This would either make Max panic further, or would comfort him. He didn’t expect it to be the latter. Which is why, when Max stopped fighting so hard, he felt a bit surprised.  
          “ _Cameron_ . . .”  
          Cameron moved Max’s head closer to his chest, chin nuzzled into his soft brown hair. He’d always thought the Aussie smelled nice. Now was no exception. Fuelled by the pleasant scent, he continued to croon: “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. You’re safe.”  
          It took a few minutes for Max to calm and fall back into a normal sleep. Once Cameron realized the night terror had ceased, he hummed in intrigue.  
          “Should’ve tried that sooner,” he mumbled to himself. Then, he closed his eyes and tried to fall back to sleep.  
          When he opened them again, he saw that it was light out. By the looks of it, the sun was only just starting to rise outside. So, he assumed it had to be around eight in the morning. The second thing he noticed was that he was alone in bed. Somewhat startled by this discovery, he raised his head. Max was already awake, sitting at the work desk by the window. He held the petals on one of the potted white flowers between his fingers, rubbing to feel their softness. Relieved, Cameron laid his head back down.  
          “Max,” he said into the air above him. “You’re up early.”  
          The Aussie only hummed in response.  
          “Did you sleep well?”  
          “I feel unrested.”  
          Cameron frowned. “Well, you can’t win ‘em all . . .”  
          “What?”  
          “Nothing.” He got out of bed and stretched.  
          “Cameron?”  
          “Yes?”  
          “Who was Julian?”  
          He stopped. “What do you mean?”  
          “August said I look like Julian. Who was he?”  
          A beat of silence. “‘Was’?”  
          “He said he’s dead.”  
          “So he did . . .” In his head, he cursed ever having let August open his mouth around Max to begin with. In retrospect, it might’ve been a good idea to gag him or something.  
          “You said his death affected you. So who was he?”  
          Cameron said nothing.  
          “Are you only with me because I look like him? Is that the only reason you keep me around?”  
          “No.” He whipped around, now facing Max. “No, I have other reasons.”  
          Max didn’t look so confident in that answer. Frowning, he leaned his head against his hand. “Was he your boyfriend?”  
          Cameron looked away again. From the nightstand on his side of the bed, he picked up his phone. As he slipped it into one of his pockets, he said, “Get dressed.”  
          Without argument, Max stood up and picked up his coat from the chair beside the one Cameron’s blazer was on. His hair was still messed up from his night terrors, but now he looked depressed, too. The sight made Cameron’s heart feel heavy. Purpose in his steps, he marched over to Max, who looked up at him. He didn’t fight as the writer adjusted his hair, then grabbed the sides and puffed them out so they stood out with their normal fluffy volume. He must’ve noticed the way Cameron’s brows knitted, because he didn’t say anything at all.  
          “Stop looking so goddamned miserable,” he grumbled before pushing past.  
          Max turned to keep an eye on him. “Why?”  
          “You look too much like Julian when you look like that. I’d rather see you, not him.”  
          That both stunned and flattered the Aussie, but a few seconds later he got a grip and pulled on his coat.  
          Ten minutes later, he and Cameron were in the back of a taxi together, driving over a bridge. As they drove, Max looked out at Lake Zürich, rapt with awe. The dark blue surface of the lake seemed to extend for miles into the horizon. Despite the snow, the winter was warm enough that the water hadn’t frozen over. Even as the taxi moved past, he could see the surface gently quivering from the push of wind. Soon, all he was able to see was the overcast sky as they passed by the lake completely.  
          “I can see why you like this city,” he said as he corrected himself in his seat. “It’s beautiful here.” Then, a beat of silence before he asked, “Why don’t you live here?”  
          Cameron shrugged. “Not having citizenship might have something to do with it.”  
          “Right. I forgot that was a thing. Why not wait until you can get it, though?”  
          The writer looked at him. “Do you want to stay here?”  
          Max looked out the window again. Now, they were driving down a highway. “I mean, I guess not. I feel out of place here, in all honesty. I’m only wondering why _you_ don’t want to stay.”  
          “I’m not sure. I mean, I could. Always could’ve. Chose to stay in America, though. A benefit of that was meeting you, though, so I don’t regret it.”  
          The Aussie looked to his left, at his partner. “You’re being romantic again.”  
          “Is there a problem with that?”  
          He smiled a little, looked away again. “No. It’s unlike you, but I kind of like it.”  
          The taxi stopped on a residential street of some sort. All of the houses were expensive-looking and at least two-storeys tall. Max wasn’t sure which side of the street their destination was on, or even why they’d stopped there. When Cameron got out of the cab after paying the driver, he did as well. Back to the street, he gazed at the building in front of him for a long moment.  
          “Max? Over here.”  
          He turned. Cameron was walking backward to the other side of the street, toward a white house almost as wide as it was tall. Though he wanted to ask why they were there, he held his tongue and approached as well. Finally the writer turned. Up the wooden steps to the front door he went. Then, he rang the doorbell. Max stood about a foot back, off steps. As he waited, he fiddled with his sleeve.  
          The door swung open a few long seconds later. Inside was an old woman, who looked to be over sixty. Her skin was pale, but marked by age and years of exposure to the sun. For an old woman, Max had to remark that she looked rather healthy. When she saw the writer in front of her, her weathered face brightened with joy.  
          “Oh, Cameron!” she exclaimed as she pulled him in for a hug. “What a surprise!”  
          Max watched with moderate surprise and confusion as Cameron returned the affectionate embrace.  
          “Long time no see, Dottie,” he said.  
          “You could say that again, young man!” She laughed, a true pure sound. “Come in, come in!”  
          As she scurried inside, Cameron followed her, with Max, uncertain, following him. The first area of the house was a four-walled veranda sort of room, with big glass windows. There was a chair in one of the corners, near it a mat for shoes.  
          “Don’t forget to take off your shoes before coming inside,” Dottie instructed, as if sensing his eyes on the mat. “I see you’ve brought a friend.” Her voice was cheery and chipper, happy to have company.  
          “Yeah. Right,” Cameron mumbled. He glanced at Max, eyes cloaked somewhat. “Friend.”  
          Max didn’t quite know what to make of that. _Am I supposed to agree? Is she against us being together like that? Well, I mean, she_ is _old. The conventional old person isn’t too open-minded towards what we do together, are they?_ Mute, he nodded.  
          Dottie opened another door and stepped into the main hall of the house. She took a few steps, past the staircase to the left and the doorway to the right, then turned back toward them. “Have a seat on the couch, dears. I’ll be right back with the husband.” She rolled her eyes, amused. “Men: always working on something. Today he’s trying to build a birdhouse. Hasn’t realized yet that he’s blind as a bat.”  
          Cameron laughed a bit, so Max smiled and made a small chuckling sound.  
           _That explains the faint hammering noise outside._  
          The old lady went deeper down the hall before turning right. Once she was out of view, Cameron turned right himself, stepping into the living room. Max followed. The floor was covered by an off-white carpet, while the walls were pure white themselves. In front of the curtained windows was a widescreen television atop a wide stand. Against the farthest wall from them was a wide, white leather couch with decorative pillows on top of it. A matching reclining chair with a footrest was closer; beside that, a loveseat. In front of the couch was a black-rimmed glass coffee table. Most noticeable of all, though, was the decorated Christmas tree in the corner, beside the couch.  
          There was another doorway out of the living room, to the left. Looking through it, Max watched as Dottie hurried past the dining room, toward the sliding glass doors to the backyard. Past her, he could almost make out a man of the same age sitting on a bench outside.  
          Hearing the couch’s leather as Cameron sat on it, Max looked away and stepped around the coffee table to sit next to him. He was silent for a beat or two.  
          “Chandler!” Dottie’s voice was clear until she shut the door behind herself, at which point it became muffled. “Chandler, we have a visitor!”  
          “Huh?” It was a rather ungraceful response, more like something snapped by a deaf old fogey. Were he not so anxious, Max might’ve laughed at it.  
          “It’s Cameron!”  
          “Who?”  
           _Okay, that’s kind of funny._ Though he cracked a smile, he quickly hid it. Then, sitting rigid on the couch, he hissed, “Cameron, who are these people?”  
          “What do you mean?” Cameron whispered back. “Relax.”  
          “No, I’m not going to relax! You’ve brought me to a random house with two old people and I don’t know who they are!”  
          When he heard the back door slide open again, he snapped his mouth shut and sat even straighter. On the outside, he looked a bit uncomfortable. On the inside, he was in a full-scale panic. Two sets of footsteps approached until the old man from outside entered, Dottie behind him. Upon seeing the writer, the old man had a similar response.  
          “Cameron! Hey!” He held his arms wide. Acknowledging the cue, Cameron stood and hugged him as well. “What brings you here, son?”  
          “Oh, you know. Holidays. I would’ve come sooner, but I’ll admit that the flight was last minute.”  
          “We’re just happy to see you, Cameron,” Dottie chirped.  
          Once he was released, Cameron gestured toward Max. “Max, meet Dottie and Chandler, my maternal grandparents.”  
           _Grandparents? What the hell? He’s introducing me to his grandparents all of a sudden?_  
          Realizing he was about to miss an important cue, Max raised his hand with a small wave. “Uh, g’day.” The two old people gave him friendly smiles.  
          “Dottie, Chandler, this is Max . . . My boyfriend.”  
          “Boyfriend” shocked Max more than his grandparents. Either that, or they had become masters of their composure.  
           _What? “Boyfriend”? We’re . . . We’re not . . . Does he see me as his boyfriend?_ The Aussie, unable to stop the warmth rushing to his face, stared up at the back of Cameron’s head. His mind wouldn’t stop running over the term. _He doesn’t lie often. Does that mean he means it? Am I his boyfriend?_  
          “Oh,” Dottie mumbled, then caught herself.  
          Chandler was the least surprised. “Eh, always suspected it.” He stepped forward. “Stand up so I can shake your hand, Max.”  
          Max snapped out of it (as much as he could) and stood up. The old man was almost shorter than him, though that might’ve only been because of his slouch. With a wrinkled, callous hand, he shook Max’s with a firm but friendly grip.  
          “Great to meet you, boy. I’d like to say Cameron told us a lot about you, but this is the first we’ve heard from him in years,” he explained through a grin.  
          “No need to rub it in,” was Cameron’s somewhat-bitter reply. “I’m here now because I thought it might be courteous to introduce Max to you.” Cameron finally sat back down, so Max did the same. Chandler sat on the reclining chair, Dottie on the loveseat.  
          “How long have you two been dating?” asked his grandmother.  
           _We don’t date_ , Max wanted to say. _Hard to do that when he more or less kidnapped me._  
          “Two years next April,” Cameron answered.  
          Somehow, the conversation carried on like this for three hours. Max said little, only sitting on the couch as Cameron asked and answered trivial questions. The whole time, Max kept trying to come to terms with what his relationship with Cameron was.  
           _He’s never called me his boyfriend before. I was pretty sure he wasn’t capable of seeing me that way. Sure, we have sex every so often and stay together, but . . . boyfriends? I feel like that's one step further than either of us is ready for. I still don’t think I’m actually gay._  
          As he dwelled on this, some of the last words Val had said to him popped into his head:  
          “ _It’s not love, can’t you see that? It’s Stockholm syndrome!_ ”  
          At the time, Max had ignored his advice. For about a month, he thought he could keep ignoring it. But, as of late, it’d started to eat away at him like the deaths of August and Stacey.  
          Is _it Stockholm syndrome? If it is, that might explain why I don’t feel like I’m gay. But I had feelings like this for him even_ before _he killed Stacey . . ._  
          “What do you say, Max?” Cameron asked.  
          The Aussie glanced at him. “Sorry, what?”  
          “Do you want to have lunch here, or back at the hotel?”  
          He opened his mouth with the intent of saying “here”, but hesitated.  
           _What if he doesn’t want to eat here?_  
          Rather than risk it, he shrugged and flashed a nervous smile. “Wherever you want, Cameron.”  
          “‘Here’ it is.”  
          An hour later, after eating a lunch that Max zoned out through, they were in a cab again, headed back for the hotel. For the first five minutes of the drive, they were both silent. Then, finally, Max glanced in Cameron’s direction.  
          “So . . . Your grandparents seem . . . nice.”  
          The writer shrugged. “They’re all right. I only like them because they’re my mother’s parents.”  
          “As opposed to?”  
          “I’d hate to meet my father’s.”  
          “I thought it was your mother you don’t like.”  
          Cameron shook his head. Max took that in.  
          “Seems we both dislike our fathers, then. Funny, that we should, uh . . .” He blushed a bit. “Did you mean that?”  
          “Mean what?”  
          Quieter, so the taxi driver might not hear it so well: “That we’re boyfriends?”  
          “Of course,” Cameron said as he turned his head to look at him at last. “What did you think we were?”  
          Max shrugged. “I don’t know. But, um . . .” Discreetly, he reached a hand out and placed it over Cameron’s. “I’m not complaining or anything.”  
          The writer looked down, then held it. He flashed Max a seductive grin. “Are you finally coming around to what I think you’re coming around to?” As he asked this, his thumb rubbed the back of Max’s hand.  
          Max considered this for a moment. With a coquettish smirk of his own, he teased: “No promises.”


	5. Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 4th, 2018.

The instant the sun disappeared over the horizon, Cameron bent Max across the length of the work desk. With his own tie wrapped over his eyes and Cameron’s around his wrists, holding them behind his back, he moaned. The writer’s hands trailed down his exposed arms before separating to take hold of his bare hips. Max’s lips shuddered.  
          “Do you want me, Max?”  
          The Aussie nodded. “Yes.”  
          “Say my name.”  
          “Cameron.” He felt the writer lean down, then his tongue was running down his right cheek. The sensation made him buck into the desk a bit as he let out another soft moan. He wanted to ask the licking writer to stroke his member as he did, but didn’t. After an accidental misfire two months prior, Cameron made an active effort to avoid Max’s cock. It was torturous for Max, then, that his hands were tied behind his back. Desperate to touch himself, he bit his lower lip and tugged at the tie around his wrists. It was to no avail; he couldn’t slip his hands through, as much as he tried.  
          “Aah, Cameron . . .” He groaned and struggled harder. In response, Cameron held his wrists down with one hand. His wet tongue slithered up and down the side of Max’s neck. The licks alone were enough to get Max hard, but he wanted more. Skipping up to the ridges of Max’s ear, Cameron traced each crease. After breathing hot breaths into it, he then started sucking on the lobe. This made the Aussie whimper in frustrated arousal.  
          “You taste so good,” Cameron purred.  
          “Oh, fuck . . . Cameron.”  
          “Do you like the blindfold idea, Max?” The writer pulled away. “Like this, you can’t tell where I’ll touch you next . . .” Then, his fingers were against Max’s lips. Before long, the artist took them into his mouth, sucking on them like candy. “That’s it . . .” He pulled them out of Max’s mouth, leaving the Aussie antsy. Listening hard, he heard the writer spit. Then, the wet rubbing of him stroking his condom-covered erection.  
          “Do you want me inside you, Max?”  
          “Don’t be so lewd about it . . .”  
          “Do you?”  
          “Yes . . . !”  
          A low snicker. Then, a few seconds later, Cameron’s arousal pushed into him. Since it’d been so long, the feeling made Max tense and choke in both pain and pleasure.  
          “Wow, you’re a lot—tighter than I remember, Max.”  
          The Aussie’s only response was another low moan. Behind his back, his fingers twitched slowly but randomly.  
          “How about if I go deeper?”  
          Max let out a weak cry when Cameron rocked in a little further. Satisfied, the writer started moving in and out at a regular pace. But for Max, it wasn’t enough.  
          “D-deeper . . . !”  
          “Deeper? Are you sure?”  
          “Cameron, please! Deeper!”  
          For a few seconds, the writer teased him with shallower thrusts instead. After that, though, he grabbed Max’s right leg and bent it up. He held his knee up against the edge of the oval-shaped desk. Moving a little to the right, he thrust in even deeper than before, making Max cry out louder.  
          “God, yes, _aah_! Harder, Cameron!”  
          “You’re biting off more than you can chew, Max . . .” Despite the warning, Cameron obliged. As he pounded into him hard enough to make the desk inch back and forth, Max felt himself coming dangerously close to the edge. The erotic sounds coming from his mouth grew louder still.  
          “C-Cameron, _gaah_ — _Aah_! I love you! Ah—I-I love you!”  
          The thrusts stopped at once. Through his own slight panting, Cameron asked, “What?”  
          Delirious, not thinking, Max repeated: “I love you. I love you I love you I love you.”  
          To the Aussie’s immense displeasure, Cameron proceeded to pull out. He heard a slight scoff, then the tie around his wrist loosened and slipped to the floor. “Yeah, no. That’s enough of that.”  
          Confused, Max raised his freed hands and pushed off the tie over his eyes. When he looked back at Cameron, he saw him debating whether to pull off the condom. “What’s wrong? Why’d you stop? Cameron, I’m so close, please. Don’t do this delay shit to me again!”  
          “You ‘love’ me?” the writer hissed. “Really? What the fuck is that all about?”  
          Max furrowed his brows in confusion. “I don’t understand. You said we were boyfriends. So I’m admitting that I love you, yes. What’s wrong with that?”  
          Cameron shook his head.  
          “Boyfriends _love_ each other, Cameron. I love you, and you love me. Right?”  
          The writer shot him a look, but didn’t say anything.  
          “Right?”  
          Silence. Then, Cameron shook his head again and stepped closer. “Look, forget I said anything. I’ll finish you off.”  
          “No!” Max hit his shoulder, shoving him back. “Tell me you love me, Cameron.”  
          “Max, let’s drop this.”  
          “Tell me, goddamn you!”  
          The writer frowned. “I don’t want to lie to you, Max . . .”  
          Max’s jaw dropped in surprise and disbelief. When Cameron made a move to get closer again, he shoved him back once more. “Don’t fucking touch me!” He pushed past, reaching down to pick up his clothes off the floor. Then, he walked to the other side of the room to start putting them on. Cameron huffed. Without looking back at him, he growled,  
          “You’ve got to stop being so fucking sentimental, Max. I’m not like most people. Love is impossible for me!”  
          Pants on but not done up, Max whirled around. “Oh, just shut up, Cameron!”  
          “You’re the one who wouldn’t drop the subject!”  
          “There are certain times when you shouldn’t tell the fuckin’ truth, Cameron!” He shook his head hard as he tugged on his sweater. “I thought you’d at least _pretend_ for me, like a normal goddamned person.”  
          “Don’t fucking blame _me_ for this, Max! _You_ should’ve known better than to go and develop feelings for me!”  
          Max glared at him. “What am I to you, then, Cameron? Huh?”  
          The writer shrugged. “A cure for boredom. Someone to talk to and fuck. How else was I supposed to explain that to my grandparents?”  
          “So then you lied anyway? You’ll lie to them, but not to me? Well, thank you _so much_ for your fucking honesty.” He picked up his coat and started heading for the door.  
          “Hey. Where are you going?”  
          “Out.”  
          “Oh, no, you’re not,” Cameron snarled as he stepped forward. His hand clasped around Max’s left wrist like a vice, but in response the Aussie only ripped it free.  
          “Get your fucking hands off me,” he spat into the writer’s face. “I’ve been an idiot, staying with you. You don’t care about me. You only care about yourself!”  
          Cameron sunk back a bit. “You’re only just realizing this now?”  
          Max raised his hand to punch Cameron, but it was easily stopped. The writer narrowed his dark caramel eyes at him.  
          “Max,” he warned, “you _don’t_ want to fight me.”  
          “Fuck you!” He swung at Cameron with his other hand, but before he could connect the strike, the writer’s fist slammed into _his_ face. Letting go of his other hand at the same time, the Aussie stumbled back and fell against the wall, down to the floor. As he sat there in shock, he glanced up at the taller, stronger man in front of him.  
          “Don’t think I’m afraid to hurt you, Max. Not being capable of love makes me capable of a lot of other things.”  
          Without a word, Max scampered to his feet and ripped open the suite’s door. As he rushed out, he pulled his hood up, then put on his coat. He didn’t look back, making a beeline straight for the elevator. Cameron didn’t follow him out. His face felt numb from the hit; he only hoped he wasn’t bleeding. Once in the elevator, he slapped the button for the lobby.  
          Somehow, a few minutes later he found himself sitting on a stool in the Onyx Bar. The lights were dim, mostly coming from the glowing white backdrop the shelves of alcohol were on. When he sat, the bartender regarded him with mild concern, but he ignored it and ordered a simple water. Perhaps due to the concern, the bartender obliged.  
          “You sure you don’t want some alcohol?” he asked.  
          Max shook his head. “I don’t drink.”  
          With that, the bartender shrugged and minded his own business.  
          There were people dancing near the back of the bar to some eighties music playing. Max couldn’t distinguish what song it was; his face and heart hurt too much to focus on it. Dismayed, he reached up and pulled his hood further over his face.  
           _I can’t believe he punched me. He fucking_ punched _me! Sure, I tried to punch him first, but_ he _deserved it!_ He brought a hand, balled up in his sleeve, up to his face and leaned against it. _I’m such a moron. I’m such a daft twat. How could I have thought it was love? Val was right!_  
          He didn’t belong in Zürich. He didn’t belong in Pittsburgh. He didn’t belong in Boston. He didn’t even belong in Brisbane anymore. So where, then, did he belong? He’d thought he belonged with Cameron. _Look where that got me._  
          The bartender placed something in front of him, getting his attention. It was a glass of whiskey on ice. Confused, he looked up at the guy and waved a hand.  
          “Oh, no, I-I didn’t order—”  
          “From the guy at the end of the bar.”  
          Max turned his head to look across the bar. Sitting there, hunched over, was Ash. The handsome auditor gave a small wave when their eyes met. Max didn’t do anything, only stared at him in surprise. After a few seconds, Ash got up and moved closer, sitting on the stool to his right.  
          “Hey, Max.”  
          Max looked away. “What are you doing here, Ash?”  
          “I saw you storming around the lobby with your hood up like this, so I followed you in here.” He reached up for the hood. Max didn’t stop him as he pulled it down and got a better look at his face. At once, his slender face twisted in worry.  
          “Oh, my God. What happened to you? Your eye’s bruised.” Ash turned to the bartender. “Hey, get some ice for him.” The man nodded and scooped some ice into a paper towel, handing the balled up product to him. “Thanks.” He turned back to Max. “Here, show me your eye.”  
          “Thanks, but I’m fine, Ash.”  
          Not giving up so easily, the auditor offered the paper towel to Max himself. “I insist. It’ll help stop it from swelling.”  
          With a huff, the Aussie succumbed and took the ice. When he pressed it against his aching right eye, the chill was both uncomfortable and soothing.  
          “Thanks . . .”  
          Ash watched him, still looking worried. He glanced over at the bartender, now preoccupied with a couple at the opposite end of the bar. Then, he looked back at Max. In a low voice, he asked, “He abuses you, doesn’t he?”  
          “Huh? Who?”  
          “Cameron.”  
          Max tore his eyes away again, looking to the crowd. “No,” he said through a nervous laugh. “What makes you think that?”  
          “For one, you never texted me. Does he monitor your texts?”  
          The Aussie started to sweat, but didn’t respond.  
          “Yeah, thought so . . . You don’t need to stay with him, you know?”  
          “I do,” Max insisted, though his voice quivered.  
          “Max.” The way Ash said his name was sincere, further accented by the gentle touch of his hand over his on the bar. Max turned to meet his tender gaze, at which point he added: “What he does to you isn’t love. If he hurts you, he’s a fool who doesn’t deserve you.”  
          Although he found the words touching, he still felt the need to argue them. “No, I . . . I don’t belong anywhere else. I have no one else.” He tried to pull his hand away from Ash’s, but he only grabbed it tighter.  
          “It only looks that way because he’s blinded you. Open your eyes, Max. See the world for what it is, not for what he tells you it is.”  
          Max’s eyes met Ash’s again. This time, they entranced him. It helped when Ash gave him a soft smile.  
          “I can help you,” he told him.  
          The Aussie said nothing for a beat, then asked, “How?”  
          “You can stay with me in my suite tonight. If you’re not comfortable sharing a bed with me, I’ll sleep in one of the chairs or something. We can report him to the police tomorrow—”  
          Max jolted and cut him off. “No. No cops.”  
          “All right, fine. No cops. But we’re definitely getting you away from him, at least for the night.”  
          “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”  
          “Better safe than sorry. I’d prefer not to wake up in the morning and find out he killed you or something.”  
          “He wouldn’t do that . . .”  
          “Did you think he’d hit you?”  
          That silenced Max. With anxious eyes, he gazed into the whiskey sitting in front of him.  
          “You should drink that. It’ll numb the pain.”  
          “I don’t drink.”  
          “Trust me, it’ll do you some good. One drink won’t hurt.”  
          Max considered it. Then, taking a deep breath, he picked up the glass and swung his head back, taking the whiskey inside like a shot. When he finished, he put the glass down and coughed. Ash patted him on the back.  
          “Atta boy.”  
          “That was terrible.”  
          “I won’t make you drink anymore, don’t worry,” the auditor assured, then chuckled. Max chuckled with him.  
           _Somehow, he knows just what to say to cheer me up . . . Is it silly to think our meeting might’ve been fate?_  
          “Anyway,” Ash started, “how are you enjoying Zürich? You know, besides Cameron.”  
          Max shrugged. “Haven’t seen much of it, to be honest.”  
          “Is that so?” The auditor hummed. “Can’t have you missing out on the experience. Would you like to go out for a night on the town with me?”  
          “When?”  
          “Right now.”  
          “What? Why?”  
          “Why not? It’s only half past seven. The night’s hardly started yet.”  
          The music in the background began to transition into something else; a remix of some sort. Max looked down at the bar and fiddled with his sleeve. “I don’t know, Ash . . .”  
          “Well, maybe this’ll make up your mind.” He stood up and, holding Max’s hand, dragged him along into the dancing crowd. The appearance of lyrics in the music confirmed that it was a remix of Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana”. Once they were far enough into the crowd, Ash started to dance. The way he did it was so carefree. Max stood beside him, wishing he could melt through the floor until he noticed something peculiar.  
           _No one’s staring at us. They’re . . . They’re too busy dancing themselves._  
          “Come on, Max!” Ash took hold of the Aussie’s hands, shouting over the music. “Dance!”  
          Max shook his head. “Sorry, I—I don’t dance!”  
          “It’s not like anyone’s watching you! Look, even I’m too busy enjoying myself!” He spun around. “Don’t be bashful!”  
          Max’s smile faded. “What?”  
          “Dance, Max! I’ll dance with you! _Folie à deux_ , if you will!”  
           _Oh, what the hell? What do I have to lose? As long as he’s making a fool of himself with me . . ._  
          Max started mimicking Ash’s wild movements. The more he did, the more surprised he was to discover he was almost having fun.  
          “There you go! Now you’re getting the hang of it!”  
          The Aussie felt himself smile. Then, he was laughing. Ash laughed with him. Grabbing one of his hands, the auditor twirled him around. Max giggled more, rapt with glee.  
           _If this is what Cameron meant by letting go of my inhibitions, then I’m more than happy to oblige. This is by far the happiest I’ve felt in a long time._  
          Meanwhile, figuring he needed a drink, Cameron trudged into Onyx. Without looking at anything or anyone else, he approached the bar, taking the stool previously occupied by Max. Impatient, he snapped his fingers to get the tender’s attention. “Bartender.”  
          The man approached. “Yes?”  
          “Do you know how to make a Death in the Afternoon?”  
          “Absinthe and sparkling wine with a lemon twist.”  
          The writer snapped again and pointed at him. “Fuck me up.”  
          With a shrug, the bartender reached under the bar for a champagne flute. “If you insist.”  
          As the alcohol was being mixed, Cameron looked off into the crowd. When he saw Max, he sat up straighter. His surprise was fast distilled by contempt, though, when he realized he was dancing _with_ someone.  
          “Son of a . . .”  
          The bartender offered him the flute glass. “One Death in the Afternoon.”  
          “Hey, can I ask you something?”  
          “Sure.”  
          Cameron leaned closer, then pointed back toward Max and the man he was dancing with. “Who’s the guy in the suit?”  
          “Oh, that’s Ashton Sinclair. He’s part of some financial group, here at the hotel on business.”  
          The writer picked up the champagne glass and raised it at him. “Thanks.” He whirled around in his seat to watch Max and Ashton dance. As he did, he noticed how happy the Aussie seemed. He’d never seen Max dance, let alone laugh and smile so freely. It was strange. Cameron had to wonder whether he’d mistaken someone else for him.  
          When the song playing started to come to an end, crossfading into something else, Ashton said something to Max. There was brief hesitation on the Aussie’s part, but then he beamed and nodded. Together, they headed for the exit. He watched them leave and wasn’t sure what to think other than how jealous he felt all of a sudden. Without even having taken a sip of the drink in his hand or turning to face the bartender again, he said, “Bartender? Make that _two_ Death in the Afternoons.”


	6. Zürich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 5th, 2018.

Max’s third time crossing the Quaibrücke was with Ash. At night, the surface of Lake Zürich seemed to glow orange and yellow, reflecting the city lights. It helped that this time, he was able to stop and gaze out at it, since they were on foot rather than in a moving vehicle. He leaned against the railing as he took in the magnificent sight. Ash stood to his right, hands in his pockets. Though he stood firm, not unlike a robot, Max paid him little mind until he finally spoke.  
          “So, you like the lake, huh?” he asked.  
          Max nodded. “Yeah. For some reason, large bodies of water like this have always captivated me. They’re so . . . serene.” He thought about something, then lowered his head and let out a small chuckle.  
          “What is it?”  
          “Nah, it’s nothing. Just remembered something from my childhood, that’s all.”  
          Ash finally leaned beside him. “I’d like to know.”  
          “It’s stupid.”  
          “I won’t think so.”  
          Max took a breath. With a somewhat-embarrassed smirk, he said, “When I was little, if I ever felt sick, I’d always fill, like . . . a pail or something with water. Then I’d sit down somewhere and kind of . . .” He shook his hands a little. “Slosh it. Like I was in a boat, watching the waves around me as I passed by.”  
          This intrigued Ash. “That didn’t make you seasick?”  
          But the Aussie shook his head. “No. It did the opposite, actually. As I watched the water, I let myself drift off.” Gazing off at the lake again. “I wasn’t in Brisbane anymore. I was somewhere else, zoned out, focused only on the water. Or maybe I _was_ the water. It was so peaceful. I could do it for hours.”  
          Ash looked off at the water before them as he clasped his hands. He waited a beat before inquiring, “Why’d you stop?”  
          “I think I’m afraid that if I did it again now, I might not be able to come back to reality. I might not _want_ to come back.”  
          The auditor took that in. “Does Cameron know about that?”  
          “No. No one does.”  
          With a pleased smile, Ash looked at Max. The Aussie smiled back. With that, he reached out and placed a hand on his back. “Come on, Max. Let’s keep going.”  
          “Yeah.”  
          They continued walking for a little over five minutes more. Ash led him down the main road, past a few restaurants. Then, he turned, beckoning him down a narrower side street. Max wasn’t afraid to follow; even if he didn’t already trust Ash, there were plenty of people walking this road. As they walked, they passed by more restaurants and shops. All the buildings were at least three storeys tall, sidewalks distinguished only by faint rows of lighter stone.  
          “Where are we going, Ash?”  
          “You’ll see. There’s a nice little place down here that I think you’ll like.”  
          As they came to an intersection, Max noticed something he found interesting. Unlike in America, the street names weren’t on signs, but plastered on the sides of buildings. In this case, he found the name “Stadelhoferstrasse” on a blue rectangle. It was above a window on the building perpendicular from the street to their right. Rather than turn, though, they continued down Stadelhoferstrasse. This section of the street, he found, had a lot of shops aimed toward women. There were clothing stores, jewelry stores, perfume and makeup stores, so on.  
           _Where is he taking me?_  
          Right beside a travel agency of some sort, he saw something peculiar in a round window. It was a diamond-shaped yellow caution sign, like the ones used on roads. On it was the silhouette of a hopping kangaroo. “Aᴜsᴛʀᴀʟɪᴀɴ Sᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟs”, it read in bold underneath.  
           _Uh . . . What?_ He felt the urge to laugh, though he wasn’t sure out of what.  
          Beside this building was a large gate with two stone pillars on either side of its entryway. Ash stopped between them, then extended his hands forward, to deeper inside.  
          “Ta-da,” he sung. “Welcome to the Outback Lodge.”  
          Max stepped closer, staring at the brown sign in front of the stairs up to the restaurant’s plaza. Sure enough, the words “Outback Lodge” were drawn across it. It took the Aussie a few seconds to figure out how to talk again.  
          “Why is there an Australian restaurant in Zürich?” was his first question.  
          Ash shrugged. “Beats me. I had a similar reaction when I found out about it. Damn good, though.”  
          “You’ve eaten here before?”  
          “I’ve always had a strange fondness for Australia.” Ash smiled at him yet again. “I thought it might make you feel more welcome in Zürich to eat something based on home.”  
          Max beamed back. It’d been much too long since anyone had been thoughtful toward him. Together, they entered the restaurant. The lighting inside was orange, making even his own pale skin seem sun-kissed. There was a mock wooden signpost, with signs labeled “Hᴀʀᴅ Wᴏʀᴋ”, “Cʀᴏᴄᴏᴅɪʟᴇ Fᴀʀᴍ”, and “Hᴇᴀᴠᴇɴ”, among others. When Max looked up, the sight of a giant navy map of Australia painted across the ceiling stunned him. The maître d’ welcomed and escorted them to a table. The placemats had old-fashioned maps of the country on them. After handing them both their own menus, the headwaiter left them to skim through. Max opened the menu, then encountering the only real issue.  
          “Aaand, it’s in German. Neat.”  
          “Need some help?” Ash offered.  
          “You know German?”  
          “Business takes me here often,” he explained.  
          Max looked back at the page. “Nah, I . . . I think I can manage.” He skimmed through, found a section titled “Fʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ Bᴀʀʙɪᴇ”. “All right, um . . .”  
          “Yes?”  
          The Aussie showed Ash his menu, pointing at the first item on the page. “I can read about three sentences of this. What does the rest say?”  
          The auditor leaned in a little closer. “Something like ‘for juicy consumption, the chicken will be pickled in our own Jamaican marinade for twenty four hours before being served to you off the barbeque. Comes with grilled cherry tomatoes, Downunder Fries, and’ . . .” He trailed off, squinted at the menu. “. . . I don’t know what that word means. Something about sauce. You want it?”  
          Max shrugged. “Seems a little pricey . . .”  
          Ash got a chuckle out of that. “Max, with me, you’ll never have to worry about money again. My income’s a lot more stable than your writer ‘boyfriend’s’. Let’s get a double portion of this.”  
          “Are you sure?”  
          He reached over and stroked Max’s cheek like he was a child. The loving look on his face somehow didn’t help its innocence.  “Anything for you, Maxie.”  
          Max made an awkward laugh, then gently moved Ash’s hand off of his face. The auditor didn’t seem to take this as an insult.  
          One of the waitresses, a chipper young girl, approached. “Hi there! What’ll it be, guys?”  
          “A double portion of Jackson’s Favorite, thanks.”  
          “No starters?”  
          “No.”  
          “Mild or hot and spicy?”  
          “Max?”  
          “Mild,” the Aussie mumbled.  
          “Mild,” Ash repeated to the waitress.  
          “All right. Do you guys want any desserts?”  
          The auditor flipped through the menu again. “Oh, wow. I didn’t even see that. Max, see anything you want?”  
          Max twitched and opened the menu as well. The waitress waited patiently until he raised his head. When he actually looked up at her, his heart caught in his throat. She had black hair pulled back into a high ponytail, hazel eyes, olive skin—  
          “Stacey . . . ?”  
          She tilted her head in confusion. “Sorry, what was that?” He glanced down at her chest. No nametag. Before she could think he was checking her out or something, he pulled his eyes away and stared at the placemat.  
          “Sticky toffee pudding,” he muttered. “Thanks.”  
          “Sticky toffee pudding? Okay. You?”  
          “Lemon meringue pie will suit me just fine.”  
          “Gotcha. Any drinks while you wait?”  
          Ash glanced at Max, who was still gazing at the table. “Max?” His words got a meek shrug out of him. “Well, pick something,” he encouraged.  
          “Anything . . .” He stopped himself, then straightened up in his chair. “You know what? Beer.”  
          “I thought you didn’t drink,” Ash commented. Then, pleased, he grinned. To the waitress he said, “Two glasses of beer.”  
          “Coming right up!” She tapped her pen down and took their menus before hurrying away.  
          Ash leaned back in his chair, tilting it a bit as he did. “Who’s Stacey?”  
          Max tensed a bit. “What?”  
          “When you looked at the waitress, you called her ‘Stacey’. Who’s Stacey?”  
          “Oh, uh . . . She’s my ex-girlfriend . . . _Was_.”  
          “Was? What’s that supposed to mean?”  
          “Well, she’s, um . . .” Max’s fingers played with his sleeve. “She’s . . . dead.”  
          “Oh.” Ash didn’t sound sympathetic at all. In fact, he quickly changed the focus of the conversation: “So, are you bi, then?”  
          “I don’t know what you mean.”  
          “Are you bisexual? Do you date girls, too, or was she only a fluke?”  
          Max let out another small, awkward laugh. “I wouldn’t call her a fluke . . . I don’t know what I am, to be honest. Used to think I was straight. Now, I’m not sure anymore.”  
          “Did you think she was attractive?”  
          The Aussie shrugged. “She was pretty.”  
          “Could you get it up with her?”  
          “Excuse me?”  
          “Did she make you aroused?”  
          Another awkward laugh. Max fidgeted in his chair. “That’s none of your bizzo, mate . . .”  
          Ash held out his hands for a beat. “No, yeah. You’re right. Sorry.”  
          The waitress returned with two glasses. “Your meal should be ready in about ten minutes,” she advised.  
          “Thank you.” Ash raised his glass to her, and she nodded before walking away again. A few seconds later, though, he resumed the topic, backtracking a bit. “Do you find Cameron attractive?”  
          “I mean, yeah. I guess.” _Yes. Very much so. Even if he is an arrogant prick . . ._  
          Ash hummed, took a sip of his beer. “Me?” With confidence, his sea foam eyes met Max’s.  
          “Um . . .”  
          The auditor shook his head. “Nah, I can tell you do.”  
           _Definitely got tickets on himself, yeah._  
          “No need to be shy about it. I find you attractive, too, Maxie.”  
          “Heh, uh, thanks.” The Aussie picked up his glass, then shook his head. Though he had to admit he was starting to feel a little out of it, he assumed it was due to the punch from Cameron.  
           _Cameron . . . I wonder if he’s worried. Is he wondering where I am yet? Will he wonder?_ He glanced around, half expecting to find Cameron peering at him from another table. No such luck. _I doubt it. If anything, he’s probably_ relieved _that I’m gone . . ._  
          “Have you ever been to university, Max?”  
          He raised his head. “No.”  
          “How old are you?”  
          “I turned 21 last October.”  
          “Hm.”  
          “You?”  
          “24 last September.”  
           _So he’s two years younger than Cameron. Not that that surprises me._ “Where were you born?”  
          “Cambridge, Massachusetts. Went to Harvard the instant I was out of high school.”  
          “So you studied law, then?”  
          “I forgot to mention my juris doctor degree when I first introduced myself to you, didn’t I? It keeps slipping my mind.” The auditor snickered to himself. When he noticed Max rubbing his temple, his face sobered into one more serious. “Maxie, are you all right?”  
          “Ah, yeah, sorry. I’ve just . . . I’ve got a splitting headache all of a sudden.”  
          “Oh. I’ve got some aspirin if you want.”  
          The Aussie raised a brow as Ash pulled out a red and white aspirin bottle and opened it. “Why do you carry that around with you?”  
          “You never know when you might need it.” He handed Max a white pill.  
          “This doesn’t look like aspirin.”  
          “It’s a Swiss brand,” he replied.  
          Max hesitated.  
           _Come on, it’s not like he’d mix up random mystery drugs in a bottle for aspirin. He means well._  
          With that, he popped the pill into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of beer. He had to force himself to swallow, since the alcohol’s taste was awful to him. When he looked back at Ash, he noticed the big grin on his face and allowed himself to replicate it.  
          For the first half of their meal, they made menial small talk. Favorite colors, favorite movies, favorite seasons, worst fears, et cetera, et cetera. When they finished the main course, the waitress returned with their desserts, then left again.  
          Ash took a piece of the lemon pie slice on his fork, merengue and all. After putting it in his mouth, he noticed the way Max shook his head, as if trying to stay awake. “Maxie?”  
          “Hmm?” The Aussie looked up at him.  
          “You seem sort of out of it.”  
          “I’m a bit tired,” he admitted.  
          The auditor shrugged and continued eating his pie. Max, meanwhile, poked at his sticky toffee pudding with his own fork.  
           _Why am I so dizzy? The restaurant seems like it’s spinning . . ._  
          “I feel funny,” he mumbled, then let out a low snicker. Ash didn’t respond. He was tempted to repeat himself until, with the intent of doing so, he looked up at the auditor’s handsome face. It was hard to see, his vision fuzzy, but in straining his eyes, he was able to make out his expression.  
          Ash’s sea foam eyes were blank, void of emotion. If anything, there was something sinister about them. His mouth was curled into a small grin, but combined with the look in his eyes, it filled Max with fear rather than glee. His heart started to race. He watched, petrified, as Ash took another sip of his beer. With his other hand, the auditor discreetly revealed the pill bottle again. The Aussie felt dread wash over him.  
           _Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. What was in that pill? What did he give me? What do I do? I can still move. Should I run? How long until I collapse? Should I tell someone? What if I’m being paranoid? But he’s smirking at me! What do I_ do _?_  
          Intent on fleeing, Max shifted in his seat. Ash noticed and lowered his glass.  
          “Max,” he hushed, “it’s easier if you don’t run away. You can trust me. I’ll take good care of you.”  
           _Run. This is dangerous. He’s going to play it off like I drank too much or something. No one will stop him. He’s going to kill me if I stay. Run!_  
          Max lunged out of his seat and bolted for the exit.  
          “Max?” Ash called after him, as if confused by this.  
          By the time he was rushing down the plaza steps, it had become clear to Max that running wasn’t an option. His legs wobbled with each step and felt like jelly; soon enough, he’d collapse. What to do, then, if escape wasn’t an option? He only had one chance.  
          From his coat pocket, he pulled out his cellphone. With it, he placed a call to his only contact. It rung one, twice, thrice.  
           _Cameron, please answer, for fuck’s sake!_  
          He dropped the call, tried again. Finally, Cameron answered.  
          “Max,” he grumbled.  
          “Cameron,” Max cried as he walked toward the gates.  
          “What’s wrong? You sound drunk.”  
          “I need help. I’ve been drugged.”  
          “Drugged?” Cameron sounded skeptical.  
          “Yes!”  
          A rugged sigh. “Max, you’ve never drank before. If you drank alcohol, then—”  
          “Fuckin’ hell, Cameron! He gave me a pill! I had a headache, and he told me it was aspirin, so I took it, but it _wasn’t_ aspirin! It was something else, I don’t know what, and I’m such an idiot and I need _help_!”  
          Finally, some concern, if not anger. “Wait, wait—you took a _pill_ from him?”  
          “I need help,” the Aussie repeated, slurred and half-hysterical. He was stumbling now, down the street he’d come from. It was getting hard to control his movements, let alone stay standing.  
          “Fuck’s sake, Max. I leave you alone for one fucking hour . . . Where are you?”  
          “Outback Lounge,” he said. “No, Outback _Lodge_.”  
          “Okay, Outback Lodge. Where’s _that_?”  
          Max stopped walking. “What? What do you mean, ‘where’s that’?”  
          “I don’t know every little nook and cranny of Zürich, Max. Where the fuck’s Outback Lodge?”  
          Stressed and panicking, the Aussie grabbed at his hair. “I don’t fucking know, Cameron! I don’t know _where_ I am!”  
          “Give me a street name!”  
          “Ah, uh . . . _Sss_ . . . _Ssschai_ . . .” He searched his head for the name to no avail.  
           _Wait, the street names are on buildings! Blue! Look for blue!_  
          “Wait! I-I can find out!” But the further he walked, the harder it became to continue. There were footsteps behind him—he knew they belonged to Ash.  
          “Max?” Cameron tried to get his attention again. “Max, give me _something_. Anything! Stores nearby, what the street _looks_ like. Quick!”  
          “Narrow,” Max panted. “There’s no sidewalks.”  
          “Congratulations, you’ve managed to describe every street in the city.”  
          “Clothing stores! Perfume. Jewelry . . . Tra-travel agency . . . _Tummnn_ . . .”  
          “Max? Max, keep talking to me! Max!”  
          The Aussie kept stumbling along, though he’d forgotten what for. He couldn’t think anymore. It was obvious, even to him, that he was about to faint. Only half present, he caught glimpse of a poster and slurred, “Cameron, what’s the Stadelhofer Passage . . . ?” Before he could get an answer, the phone slipped from his hand. A few seconds later, he collapsed to the ground. As he lay there, face buried in the snow on the road, he gazed off to his right. In front of him was a large set of black gates, locked. He took in, then immediately forgot, every little curve of the decorative patterns between the bars.  
          “Max?” he heard, faintly, from his phone. “Max, I’m on my way! Hang in there!”  
          The footsteps from behind him stopped at his feet. Someone reached down and picked up his phone, then dropped the call. Max felt his eyes wanting to roll back into his head, but tried to fight it.  
          He heard a few disappointed “tut” sounds from the person who’d caught up with him—Ash, of course. “See, Max?” he asked. “You wouldn’t be lying in the cold like this if you hadn’t run.”  
          Unable to say anything in response, Max felt his consciousness melt away.


	7. Maniac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted February 6th, 2018.

When Max woke up, the first thing he heard was the pounding of a drum. Then, an electric keyboard. The latter was what made him force his eyes open. As he’d now come to expect, the lighting around him was a warm golden orange color. There was a beige wall in front of him, but a little to its left, a doorway. He could make out the corner of a desk.  
           _I’m back in the hotel . . ._  
          For a moment, he felt relief. Then he realized two things. One, this wasn’t his and Cameron’s suite. Two, he couldn’t move his arms or legs. It felt like he was on a bed, but something was holding down his limbs. He looked down at himself, only to discover that he was naked. There were tight leather straps—belts—tied around his wrists and ankles. They descended down, presumably to wrap around the bedframe. In trying to make a sound, he discovered the last belt, wrapped around his mouth. It held a bundled up cloth of some sort in his mouth, muffling any sound he tried to make.  
          The music playing in the suite sounded like it was coming from the living area. After listening in for a few seconds, Max realized it was “Maniac” by Michael Sembello. When he looked out through the doorway, he saw Ash as he danced into the work area. He swung his head around and pumped his feet to the beat of the music, not caring who heard the music or his feet on the floor.  
          As the auditor passed by, Max tugged at his restraints and tried to scream. Neither attempt brought him much success. All he managed to do was hurt himself. To Max, though, it was better than succumbing without a fight.  
          “Maniac, _ma_ niac,” Ash sung, then continued to dance. “La la la la la la, la la la la la la . . .”  
          Max tugged harder, though he was starting to realize the futility in struggling.  
           _Oh, God. I fucked up. I fucked up big time! How do I get out of this? Oh, God, is he going to kill me? Why’d he take my clothes off? God, someone help! Somebody save me! Cameron!_  
          Ash must’ve either heard him or tired of dancing, because he stepped into the bedroom. He’d taken his blazer and tie off, the sleeves of his dark purple dress shirt rolled up. He wasn’t wearing a belt anymore, so Max had to assume it was among the ones he’d used to hold him down. “Maniac” was playing on a loop, it seemed.  
          “Finally, you’re awake,” he said. “I was starting to think I’d given you too much.”  
          Max tried to shout at him, but only choked on the cloth in his mouth.  
          “Yeah, don’t bother talking. I’ve learned better than to take off people’s gags. They tell me they won’t scream, but then they scream anyway.”  
           _Christ, has he done this to others, too? Where are they now? If he hasn’t been caught, then . . . Oh, fuck. He killed them all, didn’t he?_  
          “I’ve seen a lot of people, Maxie. A lot of men have come and gone in my life. I try and try and _try_ to find my soulmate, but everyone’s so goddamned selfish!” He pointed at the Aussie. “But you . . . You’re different, I can tell. From the moment I first saw you, I could tell.” Leaping up onto the bed, he straddled Max’s legs. The Aussie cried out behind his gag. “Maxie, you’re the one. _You’re_ my soulmate.”  
          Max shook his head and tried to pull his arms free to no avail.  
          “I’ve thought that a lot. ‘Oh, he’s the one!’ ‘Oh, no, _he_ is!’ But it’s different this time, because I can see it in your eyes. You like me, too. You like me as much as I like you! I’m not going to take any chances, though.” His eyes fell onto Max’s left wrist. “I’m sorry about the restraints, I am. But let’s be honest; without them, you’d have run away again. I need you to hear me out.”  
          The auditor’s hands moved to his cheeks, forcing him to look at him.  
          “Maxie, I love you,” he insisted. “Cameron doesn’t deserve you. I won’t hurt you like he does. I love you so much. So, please—stay with me. Let me show you I care. Don’t give me that scared look . . .”  
          The Aussie tried to pull his head away, not bothering to mask the fear in his wide gray eyes. Ash inched closer, up to his thighs. As his face got closer, he reached up, fingers running across his cheek before hooking around the belt around his head. His voice was a whisper as he said,  
          “I know I said I wouldn’t, but . . . I’m going to take off your gag, all right? Only for a second . . .”  
          Max froze, allowing him to pull the belt free. The cloth tumbled out of his mouth. Before he could scream, though, Ash’s lips locked with his. Try as he may, thrashing his head became impossible when the man gripped the back of his head hard.  
           _No, no, no! Get away from me! I don’t want you! Get the fuck off of me!_  
          Ash started breathing harder, kissing Max deeper. The Aussie kept his teeth gritted in case he tried to introduce his tongue into the mix. He did, but stopped when he noticed it was no use. Then, he pulled back. Again he shoved the cloth—his orange tie—into Max’s mouth, stifling any attempts to call for help. As he did, he pushed him back so his head landed on the pillow. Around Max’s mouth went the belt again.  
           _Somebody help!_  
          Once the belt was secure, Ash sat down on Max’s thighs again. He licked his lips. “Wow, you taste so sweet,” he remarked with a flustered laugh. His troubled sea foam eyes glanced down to Max’s crotch, then back up to meet his gaze. “I can make you feel nice, Maxie.”  
          Max shook his head. “ _Mmn_ ,” he groaned. “ _Mmn_! _Mmn_!”  
          “Come on, it won’t be that bad.” The auditor slid back, giving himself more room. “I don’t even need to do anything but this . . .” He lowered his hand past Max’s groin and placed his fingertips on the area of skin right behind it. This sent a slight jolt through Max’s body, making him struggle. He tried to kick his feet, but couldn’t do more than bend his knees a little.  
           _What’s he doing? I don’t even want to know, I only want him to—_  
          His thoughts ended abruptly when Ash pressed down a little harder. A sharp wave of pleasure shot through his body, causing him to gasp behind his gag. His body tensed until Ash released, but before he could process what’d happened, he was pressing down again. He started stroking the area with his two fingers, up and down. Max choked out a cry as he arched his chest out.  
           _Oh, my God! I-it feels like he’s—he’s hitting my—oh,_ God _!_  
          “If I press hard enough here, I can stimulate your prostate without even entering you. At least, that’s what I read somewhere. Judging by your reaction, it seems to be working.”  
          Max kept trying to struggle. As much as he wanted to resist, against his own will he felt himself growing hard.  
          “I’ve found a weak spot, haven’t I? It looks like you’re about to finish already.”  
          The Aussie’s head was spinning. Ash was right; he was teetering on the edge of completion. Part of him wanted to stop fighting, accept bliss. The other part reminded him that he was being sexually assaulted.  
          Rather than work Max to orgasm right away, Ash pulled his hand away. The Aussie lay there, quivering and panting. “That’s not so bad, is it?” The sound Max made in response was one of protest. “Aww, don’t deny it. I know I’m better than Cameron. I’ll prove it to you.”  
          Max forced open his eyes in time to see Ash pull out a condom. The sight of it made his eyes widen.  
           _No. Nonono._  
          “ _Mmn_ , _mmn_! _Mmmn_!” With that, he started fighting harder. Still, he was helpless. He screamed as hard as he could, but the cloth made it sound more like a moan than anything else. “ _Cmm-rmmn_! _Mmmph_!”  
          “No one can hear you over Michael Sembello,” Ash chirped. From his other pocket, he pulled out a bottle of lubricant. As he squirted some of the cold gel onto his gloved arousal, he whistled along with the chorus.  
          “ _Gnn mmfh_! _Mmn_!”  
          Ash huffed. “Max, please. I promise you, it’ll be all right. I’ll be gentle.” His hand caressed Max’s cheek, even as he whipped his head from side to side. “I love you so much.”  
          When he felt Ash slip inside him, he almost gagged trying to scream again. His attempts to fight now only helped the auditor move deeper into him. Despite this and Max’s intense negative reaction, the way he fucked him was gentle. Compared to Cameron, Max recognized that there seemed to be a lot less lust in his actions than love. If his sole purpose was to rape him, he had to assume he’d be rough about it. But Ash moved inside him with tentative, loving caution. He kept his eyes on Max’s face the whole time, watching for twinges of pain.  
          “Is this good?” he asked.  
           _‘Is this good’? Are you fucking delusional?_ Still, the question brought about conflict in Max’s mind. He didn’t want this, but, to his horror, it _was_ good. There was no pain, only pleasure. It wouldn’t take long for him to stop being able to deny that.  
           _I really am sick . . . He’s raping me, but I’m enjoying it! What the fuck is wrong with me?_  
          Ash rocked in deeper, taking his time as he did. The tip of his arousal brushed against Max’s prostate, causing him to moan in delight before he could stop himself.  
           _Oh, no. No. I-I’m getting close . . . Don’t finish! I don’t want to finish!_  
          Noticing the way Max’s chest started to heave, Ash moved slower. Then, he pulled out and started stroking himself to stay hard.  
          “At this rate, you’ll come before me,” he pointed out. “I’ll give you a bit to cool down.”  
          Max wanted to cry. _I’ve decided: this is hell. This is hell! How did this happen? Why is this happening? Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? Is this because I wanted love? Because I was stupid enough to expect love from Cameron, stupid enough to be angry when I didn’t get it? That’s not enough! I didn’t do anything wrong! I don’t deserve_ this _!_  
          Breathing starting to become a little heavier, Ash leaned back down. “All right. Are you ready, Maxie?”  
          Max shook his head. Ash didn’t seem to acknowledge this, as he entered again anyway. Though still gentle, his thrusts became faster. Each one made Max tense up.  
          “ _Mmm_ . . . _Mmmnn_!”  
          “H-hold on—Maxie—!”  
          Ash finished first; as he did, he thrust wildly. That was enough to push Max over the edge. With a muffled cry, he came. Even when they were both done, Ash didn’t stop right away. The extra plunges hit hard, creating additional waves of pleasure throughout the Aussie’s aftershock. It’d never felt so good to cross his threshold.  
          Finally, Ash stopped and pulled out. He laid down beside Max, moved up to kiss him on the cheek. Then, he reached up and pulled the belt away again. The Aussie gladly spat out the cloth in his mouth.  
          “How was that?” the auditor inquired.  
          Max glared at him. “Fuck you,” he hissed.  
          “What’s wrong?”  
          “Did you ever think that I don’t _appreciate_ being raped?”  
          Ash raised a brow with a smug smirk. “Call it what you want, but you know you enjoyed it in the end.”  
          “Let me go.”  
          “Let’s rest for a few minutes first. I can tell I took a lot out of you.”  
          It was true, but Max didn’t want to admit it. “Let”—he didn’t have a chance to finish the demand, because Ash leaned over and locked lips with him again. This time, the sensation was a lot more pleasant, but he still moved his head in resistance. When the man wouldn’t let up, though, he found himself fighting less and less. Before he knew it, he was accepting the kisses. Then, he was returning them. When Ash’s tongue raveled around his, he finally realized what’d happened.  
           _Fuck!_  
          Even his displeasure at the realization couldn’t stop him, though. Through the kisses, Ash freed Max’s left hand. Rather than strike out at him as planned, he used it to reach up and grab at his light brown hair. The other hand came free easier; this one wrapped around his back. Their make-out session only lasted a few more seconds, though, because then Ash pulled back to undo the restraints around Max’s ankles. Once he was free, the Aussie threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up before they got a chance to resume.  
          “I’m leaving,” he stated.  
          “To where?”  
          “I’m going back to Cameron.”  
          For a pause, Ash said nothing. Then, he told him, “I won’t stop you. You’re making a mistake, though.”  
          “Where are my clothes?”  
          “I’ll get them.” The auditor stood up. As he walked out of the bedroom, he pulled off his condom and did up his pants. While he was gone, Max fretted over his warning.  
           _What if he’s right? What if I_ am _making a mistake?_  
           _How could I possibly make a bigger mistake than this?_  
          Ash returned with Max’s clothes in a pile. He placed them down on the end of the bed, beside him. The Aussie hurried to dress; Ash watched him as he sat down on the other side of the bed.  
          “Keep in mind, Maxie, that this isn’t me letting you go.”  
          Max froze.  
          “I _will_ see you again. Next time, I might not be able to get you go.” He leaned closer; Max glanced at him—at his serious gaze. “I might not _want_ to.”  
          The artist said nothing. When he’d put on all of his clothes, he stormed out of Ash’s suite. It took him a minute to locate the elevator. Once he’d found it, he got in and headed to the floor he and Cameron stayed on. The whole ride down was torture.  
           _Should I tell him? He deserves to know. Does he? He doesn’t care about me. What would I say? “Hey, I got raped and I liked it”? “Hey, I think I just cheated on you”?_  
          On their floor, he shuffled his feet along the marble hallway until he reached the door to their suite. The last thing he wanted to do was knock, so he reached for the handle instead. That was how he noticed the lock system. The light for the handle was red.  
           _Right, I gave the keycard back to Cameron . . ._  
          There was a lot of inner debate going on inside him for a few minutes. Eventually, rather than knock, he turned his back to the door and sat down on the floor beside it.  
           _Even if he is in there, I doubt he’ll answer. He doesn’t want to see me right now . . . if ever._  
          He pulled his knees closer to himself, buried his face against them.  
           _And I thought I was an idiot before. Now what am I?_  
           _Alone._  
           _Cameron might not love me, but at least he’d never rape me!_  
           _I’m alone._  
          Right as he was about to give up and start crying, he heard someone approaching from the elevators. His blood ran cold in fear that it was Ash. As they turned the corner, he looked up with anxious eyes. To his surprise, it was Cameron, in a coat. He had his eyes closed at first, so when he opened them and saw Max sitting by the door, he almost jumped. Then, on his face, the faintest sign of relief.  
          “Max, holy shit.” He exhaled. “You scared the _shit_ out of me. Where were you?”  
          “Where were _you_?” the Aussie croaked back.  
          “Out looking for you for the past four hours.”  
          “Why would you do that? You don’t care about me.”  
          Cameron stared down at him. Then, he shook his head. “I don’t know how to make you understand. I can understand you, because you show your feelings. I don’t show mine, so . . . yeah.” This made Max look up at him, but he didn’t reciprocate the gaze. Instead, he continued: “Whether I _care_ about you is up for debate, I won’t deny that. But I _do_ _like_ you, Max. If nothing else, take comfort in that. Liking someone is rare for me.”  
          But this only made Max feel worse about liking what Ash did to him.  
           _He looked for me. He was worried about me. He . . ._  
          Before he knew what he was doing, he was crying. Cameron watched him, unmoved. Finally, he stepped closer. Without comment, he used the keycard to open the door. Max pushed past him to get into the room first. He headed straight for the bathroom, where he turned on the light and stood in front of the sink. Though he looked around, he didn’t look at the mirror; he couldn’t bear to look at himself.  
          Cameron closed the door and turned on the room’s lights. As he stepped closer, he unzipped his coat. “Max, what happened?”  
          The Aussie refused to speak.  
          “Look, I can tell something’s bothering you. Do you . . . Do you want me to hold you?”  
          “Leave me alone,” Max insisted, voice quivering.  
          “Max . . .”  
          Tears in his eyes, he glared at the writer. “Please, just leave me alone!”  
          Recognizing that something wasn’t right, Cameron’s brows twisted with concern as he leaned against the doorframe. “What happened?” he repeated, sounding more sincere this time.  
          “Stop pretending you care! At least give me the common goddamned courtesy to suffer alone!”  
          “Max, please. I’m not—”  
          As Cameron stepped closer, Max recoiled. “Stay back! Stay away from me!”  
          “Okay, okay, fine.” Cameron moved back.  
          “This is all _your_ fault, Cameron! If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t’ve been able to— . . . !” He couldn’t bring himself to put it into words.  
          “My fault? I’m the one who wanted you to stay. _You_ left.”  
          Max ran his fingers through his hair in grief. “I know I did,” he shouted, “but I can’t accept it! I can’t accept that I _deserved_ that! I _didn’t_!”  
          “What did he do to you, Max?”  
          “Go away!” Max cried, waving his arm blindly to shoo him away. “I want to be alone.”  
          Cameron sighed. “Can’t say I didn’t try.” He left the bathroom and allowed himself to yawn as he tossed his coat down onto the chair. Because of how tired he was, rather than make an ordeal of changing, he swapped into a t-shirt and called it at that. When he laid down on the bed, though, he waited up for a few minutes. As he sat there, he wondered what to do about Ashton. Was it Ashton that Max was referring to? Who else could it be?  
          Something light fell over, then Max ran the bathtub for only a second or two. After that, silence. As much as he tried to ignore it, the writer found himself unable to control his curiosity. He made sure to be quiet as he crept toward the bathroom. Leaning against the wall, he peered in with a sidelong glance.  
          In Max’s hands was the small gray vase that’d held decorative plants. Having filled it with water, by the looks of it, he sloshed it with care, gazing in as he did. Though he looked exhausted and dissatisfied, his eyes seemed glazed over. It was like he wasn’t there at the moment. Instead, he was lost inside the liquid within the vase.  
          Cameron watched him for a few minutes, trying hard to understand what his purpose was. To him, there was no comfort to be found in this strange action. Had Max finally lost it? If so, it sure took him long enough. Yet, the thought brought about a feeling of worry. Despite his strong urge to pull Max from his trance, he decided not to. Perhaps the water would be of more comfort to the Aussie. He couldn’t see how, but it was possible. So, minding his own business, Cameron crept back to bed. Max didn’t join him.


	8. Dominance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 7th, 2018.

Eight hours later, Cameron woke up alone. This didn’t surprise him, as he hadn’t expected Max to come to bed. When he sat up, though, he saw that the Aussie wasn’t asleep in a chair, either. His first thought was that, somehow, he’d managed to fall asleep in the bathroom. Rather than investigate, though, he spent a few minutes dreaming up ways to murder Ashton.  
          The best way seemed to be to pay someone—a co-worker, perhaps—to poison him. This opened too many liabilities, though; if they got caught afterward, they could rat him out. Murder in Pittsburgh was risky enough, if not riskier since he lived there. In Zürich, though, not knowing everything like the back of his hand was a real disadvantage. Especially with as high-profile a target as Ashton Sinclair. Val and August were lowly streamers. Ashton was part of a fucking finance company, a big one by the looks of it. If he were to disappear, he’d get more than a missing poster. He’d get a full-scale investigation. Thus was his dilemma. His success so far, as much as he wanted to accredit it to his own skills, was likely due to his tendency to target the little people. The police didn’t care enough to go all out to find any mistakes he’d made with them.  
          So, Cameron was stumped. Even staging a suicide didn’t seem like a good idea. What if someone saw him following him—what if there were more CCTV cameras in the hotel than he expected? Plus, the way he danced last night made Ashton strike him as the type to never have had a suicidal thought in his life.  
          Even if he’d told Max any of his potential weaknesses last night, he doubted he’d remember. He’d most likely taken Rohypnol, known for its amnesia-inducing effects. It was worth asking, though.  
          The writer got out of bed and slunk across the room. When he poked his head into the bathroom, he expected to see Max asleep on the floor or in the bathtub. Instead, the Aussie was sitting right where he’d left him the night before, still sloshing water in the vase. This discovery made Cameron frown.  
          “Did you sleep?” he asked. Max paid no attention to him. Judging by the dead look on his face, he felt safe in assuming the answer was “no”. With a sigh, he approached, then crouched down beside him. He placed a hand on his wrist to stop his slow shakes. “Max, come to bed.”  
          Max shook his head.  
          “Talk to me.”  
          Again.  
          “I’ll hold you.”  
          “I don’t want you to hold me.”  
          “Then I’ll sit beside you and you can talk when you’re ready.” When the Aussie didn’t move, he added, “If you don’t come to bed, I’m going to sit beside you here.”  
          Albeit reluctantly, Max finally stood up. Cameron followed him into the bedroom, watching him sit down on the farthest side of the bed. He laid down, his back to the writer, who sat next to him. They stayed like this for a minute or two. Cameron yawned and leaned his head back against the wall. For a few beats more, he said nothing. Then, hands clasped over his stomach, he asked,  
          “What did Ashton do to you?”  
          It took Max a second to answer. “How do you know his name?”  
          “The bartender told me.”  
          “You watched me leave with him?”  
          “Spotted you by accident, yeah. I guess we happened to go to the same place. You said he drugged you?”  
          “Yeah. He took me to this Australian restaurant . . .”  
          “I saw that last night when I went looking for you. Any good?”  
          Max didn’t answer. If he could see his face, he suspected the Aussie would be glaring at him.  
          “I’m kidding. What happened before you passed out? Did he tell you anything useful?”  
          “Like what?”  
          “Like his weaknesses? Worst fears? His birthday?”  
          Sensing what he was getting at, Max looked at Cameron over his shoulder. “You’re not going to kill him. That’d be stupid, and you know it.”  
          “Hey, I’m just curious.”  
          The artist lowered his head again. “September, 1994.”  
          “What day?”  
          “Don’t know. He didn’t say.”  
          “Damn.” Then, Cameron paused again. “Do you know which suite he’s in?”  
          “Drop it, Cameron.”  
          “What did he do to you?”  
          “ _Drop_ it.”  
          The writer shut his mouth and exhaled through his nose. Though he had no way of telling, he thought he had a good idea of what Ashton did. After all, Rohypnol wasn’t called a “date-rape” drug for nothing. But Max’s reluctance to speak gave him another idea: that it wasn’t rape. “Did you enjoy it?”  
          “Enjoy what?”  
          He shook his head. “Never mind.”  
          Silence. For what must’ve been a few minutes, neither of them moved nor spoke. The tense serenity was interrupted by a text notification sound. On impulse, with confusion, Cameron picked up his phone off of the table. “That . . . wasn’t mine.”  
          Max reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his phone. Then, he gazed at it. Discreetly, Cameron raised his head and managed to catch a glimpse of the screen. The notification wall showed a new text from “Ash”.  
          “Meet me in my suite at noon.”  
          When Max sat up, Cameron pulled his head back, pretending not to have seen anything.  
          “I’m going to go get breakfast,” the artist mumbled.  
          “Do you want me to come with you?”  
          “No.” Max stood and made his exit without saying or doing anything else. The door closed behind him. Cameron counted to ten in his head before finally standing up and heading to the door as well. Before leaving, he grabbed his blazer and pulled it on over his t-shirt.  
          By the time he’d reached the elevator, the doors had closed. He pushed the call button. As he waited, he watched the lights indicating what floor it was on. It went down to the lobby; he could only hope Max was on it, not someone else. A minute later it returned to the floor he was on. When the doors opened, he stepped in and slapped the lobby button.  
          He headed straight to the lobby restaurant. To his slight relief, he saw Max sitting alone at a table. In one of the booths to the side, he saw Ashton reading a Swiss newspaper. Sitting on the table in front of him was a cup of coffee.  
          Dark caramel eyes moving from one to the other, Cameron made a decision on the spot. Rather than approach Max first, he walked to Ashton’s booth.  
          “Hi,” he greeted, making his voice casual, but not enough to hide his contempt.  
          Ashton hardly looked away from the newspaper. “Hello.”  
          “Mind if I sit across from you?”  
          “There’s plenty of other booths, but if you must.”  
          Already, Cameron found it difficult to resist the urge to strangle him. But, smothering it, he sat down on the opposite seat. On the table, he clasped his hands, if only to stop them from grabbing something to stab him in the throat with. “Do you know who I am?”  
          “Cameron Fenn, I gather.”  
          “You’re Ashton Sinclair, right?”  
          “Mm-hmm.”  
          “I’ve noticed you’ve become acquainted with Max.”  
          “I have.”  
          “Were you with him last night?”  
          “For a few hours, yes. Why?”  
          “Well, he called me saying”—Cameron leaned in closer, spoke lower—“that you’d drugged him.”  
          Finally, the auditor put down his newspaper. His facial expression remained composed as he said, “We drank some beer together. Then I gave him some aspirin. It made him drowsy, so he panicked. I don’t know why.”  
          “By the time I got there, both of you were gone. I looked for four hours.”  
          “I didn’t want you getting involved. To keep him safe, I took him back to my suite until he regained consciousness.”  
          “Keep him safe?” Cameron raised a brow, half in intrigue and half in anger. “If you did what I think you did, Ashton, I’d hardly call that keeping someone _safe_.”  
          The man narrowed his eyes. “I showed Max love. At least I didn’t hit him.”  
          “I hit him to teach him a lesson. He started that fight, I ended it. But I’ve never forced him to have sex with me.”  
          “Is that what you think I did?” Ash reached down and picked up his cup of coffee. The sip he took was dainty. It made Cameron realize that, if someone heard their tones but not the words, they might think they were having a simple debate, not accusing each other of rape and abuse. “How do you know I forced him into it? How do you know that we had sex at all? Do you have proof?”  
          Cameron hesitated. “Well, no.”  
          Ash put down the cup, smirked at him. “I could sue you for slander, Mr. Fenn. So, are you sure you want to accuse me of sexual assault without any evidence?”  
          A pause. Then, the writer leaned forward again and tried a new approach. “Listen. I used Rohypnol on someone myself, back in college. Very cunning of you to make Max ingest it willingly.”  
          “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
          “Come on, you don’t have to play dumb with me. It’s not like I’ll report you to the police or anything. No one’s listening, and you can search me; I’m not recording our conversation.”  
          Instead of giving in, Ash stood, folding the newspaper under his arm. “You’re delusional,” he accused. “If I ever hear anything about this again, you’d better have a good lawyer.”  
          “Oh, yeah,” taunted Cameron, “get daddy to buy you the best attorney in Switzerland. I’m real scared.”  
          The auditor leaned in close, getting into his face. “Unlike you, Cameron,” he hissed, “I make my _own_ money.”  
          As he walked away, Cameron realized how lucky he was to have stepped back so quickly after saying that. If he’d stayed within arm’s reach, there was no telling _what_ he might’ve done to him. Throwing the coffee he’d left behind in his face seemed like a good start. For a few minutes he sat there, watching Max from afar as he struggled to regain his composure. Once he’d got a grip, he stood up and approached the Aussie’s table.  
          “Hey,” he greeted, looking down at him. “Want some company?”  
          “Leave me alone,” Max responded, voice worn out. He had a cup of tea in front of him.  
          Cameron couldn’t stop himself from huffing in impatience. “I’ll be upstairs, then. Will you be joining me?”  
          “I don’t know.”  
          He put his hand on Max’s shoulder, but it was then shook off. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t take too long.” When he got no further response, he shoved his hands into his pockets and returned to the elevator.  
          Ashton had ruined everything. Zürich was supposed to have been a fresh start for him and Max. Then that random asshole had to come and fuck it all up. He had half a mind to kill the guy with utter disregard for his integrity. Kill him out in the open, for everyone to see that he was the killer—that he was _enjoying_ it. Of course, though, that’d end with him in a jail cell, if not on death row.  
          He was still dwelling on this sick fantasy when he returned to the door to his and Max’s suite. It wasn’t until he pulled out the keycard that he glanced at the lock and noticed something: the light wasn’t red. Both lights were off. Curious, he raised his eyes and gave the door a gentle shove without touching the handle. It swung open. For a beat, he wondered if someone had broken in. Then, he rationalized it, remembering that he’d let the door close on its own in his hurry to follow Max. It mustn’t have closed right. Still, he had a bad feeling in his gut, so when he entered, he did so with caution.  
          After standing in front of it for a few seconds, Cameron closed the door, making sure it clicked into place. To follow this up, he remained frozen, listening hard. He heard nothing, but couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.  
          “Ashton,” he called. “I don’t know how you found out which suite is mine, but if you’re in here, show yourself.”  
          Nothing. Was he only imagining it? He couldn’t believe that. With the door left open, it was too good an opportunity for anyone to pass up. Ashton especially, if he was as cunning as Cameron gave him credit for. Deciding it was the most optimal place for Ash to hide, he approached the bathroom doorway. What he didn’t expect was for the auditor to lunge out at him, grabbing his lapels. This miscalculation resulted in the writer being slammed into the counter. Ash bent him over it, pinning him down. One of his hands battled with Cameron’s flailing arms, the other pulled at his black hair.  
          “Fucker!” Cameron shouted at him, though he only fought with half of his strength.  
          “You know, you should consider yourself lucky. I came here to kill you.”  
          “What changed your mind?” the writer taunted. “I’d love to see you try to get away with that here.”  
          “No. I had a much better idea.”  
          When Cameron felt one of Ash’s hands wrapping around his thigh, he felt a flutter of nervousness. “Hey, whoa. What . . . What are you doing?” He made a small sound of discomfort when his hair was tugged at, yanking his head back. At the same time, Ash bucked into him a bit.  
          “When’s the last time you and Max did it, Cameron?”  
          Cameron sneered. “Yesterday.”  
          “Did you finish?”  
          “What does that matter?”  
          “I’d like to call a temporary truce.” His hand slid up and massaged Cameron’s groin through his pants.  
          “Stop copping a feel on me, you creep. I’m not interested.”  
          He turned the writer around. “Aren’t you?”  
          Cameron responded by shoving Ash back. Pinning the auditor against the far wall, he bared his teeth at him. “No, I’m n—”  
          When Ash kissed him, it didn’t come as a surprise. What did was how short it was—only a small peck. As if he was testing the waters. Cameron stopped talking, stared at him. They remained frozen for a couple of seconds.  
          “What the hell is your goal here?” Cameron finally asked.  
          “We’ve both had sex with Max,” he answered. “Now, we should have sex with each other. See how our styles differ. Maybe we could learn something from each other.”  
          “Why would I want to learn anything from you?”  
          Ash grinned. “Because I guarantee Max enjoyed it more with me than he ever has with you.”  
          Cameron didn’t expect that to make him as bitter as it did. How long would it be until noon? If he played his cards right, he figured he might be able to keep Ash away from Max if he gave in. Plus, on the off chance that he was right, there could be something to learn. So, he grinned.  
          “All right, fine. Show me.”  
          When Ash kissed him again, he kissed back. It was hard to pretend that he was into it, but he tried not to push him away. Somehow, he could tell that his disinterest was mutual. Why, then, were they doing it? Neither of them were enjoying it. All Cameron could think was that it was a show of dominance. Which of them would crumble first? Who would turn out to be the alpha male?  
          Before long, they were making out. Despite their lack of attraction, to Cameron’s surprise he felt himself getting hard. There was something exciting about this scenario; unlike with Max, he could be as rough as he wanted with Ash. With no love or companionship to keep, there were no restraints. Anything he wanted, he could do. He could get rid of this sexual frustration Max had unwittingly built upon for the last two months. Plus, Ash’s lips felt nice.  
          Ash was hard, too, and he shoved Cameron back against the counter again. With their lips finally pulled apart, he sunk down, hands scrambling to undo the writer’s belt. Once his erection was free, he gazed at it in intrigue as he held it in his hands.  
          “Hmm, nice girth,” he observed. “I’m longer, though.”  
          Cameron responded with a rough shove, pushing the auditor to the floor. He got over top of him, holding him down hard. “Fucking prove it.”  
          With a smirk, Ash reached down and started unfastening his own belt. The instant he only needed one hand, he used the other to pull Cameron closer, kissing him again. Pulling away, the writer looked down at the auditor’s exposed member.  
          “See?”  
          Cameron let out an unamused chuff. “Whatever. It’s not that impressive.”  
          Ash reached out and took hold of both of their members. “It gets the job done.” Then, he began rubbing their shafts together. He was quite gentle about it, though . . .  
          “Oh, stop fucking around with it. What, are you afraid you’ll hurt yourself?”  
          “How would you recommend doing it, then?”  
          Cameron pushed his hand away and grabbed them firmly. He paid particular attention to the heads, mushing them against each other. Then, trailing them down the lengths.  
          “Let’s get on with this,” complained Ash, not satisfied with the frotting.  
          “Fine by me.” From his pocket, the writer pulled out a condom. The auditor sat up and snatched it from him, though.  
          “I should go first.”  
          “Sorry. I don’t catch.”  
          “Neither do I.”  
          “You sure? You look like a catcher to me.”  
          Ash shoved Cameron down so that he was lying on the floor instead. “You’re the one who needs teaching.” As he said this, he tugged down the writer’s pants.  
          “Oh, fucking try me. You go anywhere near me with that thing and I swear I’ll rip it off.”  
          He was already slipping on the condom. Cameron attempted to scooch himself back toward the door, but Ash grabbed his ankle and tugged him forward. “Where do you think you’re going?”  
          “I’m not joking. I will fucking bleed you like a stuck pig.”  
          “Why are you so against it if you’ve never even tried it? Max seems to enjoy it enough.”  
          “Back off.” He tried to get away, but Ash pulled him harder. Once his back was against the floor again, the auditor lifted one of his legs up and leaned closer to him.  
          “I’m not going to waste lubrication on you, just so you know. I’ll need it for later.”  
          “Fuck”—before he could finish the insult, he felt the sharp sting of Ash’s head pressing into him. “Shit!” He swung at his arms, but no amount of force could make them bend.  
          “Ooh, wow. You’ve really never taken it before, I can tell. I was only bluffing, myself.” Out, then deeper in. It was dry, and it hurt like hell. As Cameron groaned in pain, he seemed to reconsider. “On second thought, I might _need_ lube. Christ, you’re tight.”  
          “ _Agh_ , get out! Fuck!”  
          “Hold on.” Ash pulled out. From his pocket, he revealed a bottle of lubricant. As he rubbed himself up with it, Cameron turned over and attempted to crawl further to the door. He didn’t make it very far before Ash grabbed one of his knees and used it to hold his leg up. “This should be better.”  
          “Wait, don’t”—Ash slid in. The lube made it easier, sure, but it still hurt. As he choked in pain, he wasn’t sure if he regretted getting himself into this or not. Had it hurt so much for Max, the first time they’d done it? Did it still hurt like this?  
          “How are you managing this time?”  
          Cameron clawed at the floor. If nothing else, at least this was something new. As Ash continued, somehow it started to feel nice. But he didn’t want “nice”. “H-harder.”  
          “Harder?” There was an amused intrigue in the auditor’s tone. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider that request?”  
          “Harder!” he demanded. “If you’re gonna do it, do it! Fuck me like you hate me, not like a sissy, come on!”  
          “Well, I warned you.” With his free hand, he stabilized himself on Cameron’s hip. Then, he thrust in deep and rough. It managed to catch the writer off-guard, causing him to cry out before he could stop it. The noise reminded him of Max. Would he make the same sounds? If so, was it because he’d learned them from him? Ash spared him nothing, pounding into him hard and fast, over and over. As he did, he let go of Cameron’s hip, moving the hand up to press his cheek against the floor. Cameron made another sound, this one more strangled than the last.  
          Meanwhile, Max exited the elevator. He trudged toward his and Cameron’s suite, rubbing his eyes as he did. Exhaustion was coming over him; all he wanted to do was ignore Ash’s text and get some sleep. Though he still hadn’t forgiven Cameron, after he’d left him in the lobby he’d started to come around on one thing:  
           _If I ask, will he hold me again? He keeps offering to, so . . ._  
          When he reached the door, he grabbed the handle, only to find it locked.  
           _Shit. Right. Keycard._  
          With a defeated sigh, he raised his hand to knock. He stopped short, though, when he heard something through the door. It was faint, but still audible.  
           _Is that . . . Cameron?_  
          Another groan confirmed it. The writer making sounds like this was rare; in fact, he’d never heard more than a low moan. So, on one hand, hearing them made Max flush. On the other, they made his heart ache more than before, because they meant he was having sex. Having sex with someone who wasn’t him, better sex than what they shared.  
          To stop himself from making any sounds and giving away his presence, the Aussie raised a hand to cover his mouth. It wasn’t out of character for Cameron to cheat on him. But beyond briefly seducing Val in front of him, he’d never done it before. Max had come to trust that he was his only partner, that he at least had that going for him. That gave him a sense of security. Now, he’d been replaced. By the sounds of it, Cameron enjoyed his replacement a lot more. Max’s security shattered, leaving him petrified, trembling, one hand still holding the handle.  
           _Bastard . . . That bastard! I’ll kill him!  
          Nonononono.  
          I’m all alone._  
          Max ripped his other hand away from the door, adding it onto his face. Taking a step back, he felt like he’d fall. The world seemed to be spinning without him. He didn’t know what to do.  
           _If I’m not useful to Cameron, he’ll kill me. I know he will. If I stay with him, I’ll die. I’m not useful anymore. I pushed him away! No! This can’t be happening. This can’t be!_  
          Cameron moaned a little louder. Max felt like he was going insane. Everything was crumbling around him.  
           _I need help. I need someone to help me. I need someone to stop me from losing my mind!_  
          One word—one name—came into his mind.  
           _Ash._  
          On wobbly feet, he turned and started stumbling back the way he came. Before he knew it, he was running for the elevator. He couldn’t believe he was returning to him after what he’d done to him the night before. Yet, there he was, slamming over and over on the call button, trying to will the elevator to move faster.  
          If nothing else, Ash loved him. Ash wouldn’t leave him alone. Ash would protect him. He’d be safe. Right now, that was all he needed to run back to him.


	9. Submission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 8th, 2018.

Ash stepped out of Cameron’s suite, correcting his tie as he did. He’d left the writer shuddering on the floor without any urge to linger. Waiting for him to recover and turn the tables on him wasn’t part of his plan. From a pocket, he took out his phone to check the time. It was only eleven in the morning. Disappointing, that he’d only managed to kill half an hour with Cameron. But if things worked out as he’d planned, he wouldn’t have to wait until noon to see Max again.  
          When he got up to the floor his suite was on, he wasn’t surprised to see Max sitting in front of his door. To cover his bases, though, as he approached, he put on a façade of the emotion. Max looked up at him as he grew closer. His eyelids were puffy and red from tears and lack of sleep. To tell the truth, he looked miserable.  
          “You’re early,” Ash observed.  
          “Cameron’s cheating on me,” Max responded, tone flat and voice worn-out.  
          The auditor huffed and shook his head in distaste. “Figures. Are you all right?”  
          “No. I’m gutted. It feels like my heart’s been ripped from my chest and crushed before my eyes.”  
          “Come inside.” Ash used his keycard and pushed the door open. He extended a hand down for Max to pull himself up with. “I’ll take care of you.”  
          The Aussie’s gray eyes looked dead as he gazed up at Ash. They fell, taking in the sight of his offered hand. After a few seconds, he finally took it, allowing Ash to help him to his feet. Together, they entered the suite.  
          “You know, your hands are cold. Are they always?” No answer. “Let me take your coat, Maxie.” Again, no answer. So, he reached over. Max didn’t fight him as he slipped his beige coat off. There were hooks on the wall near the door that Ash hung the article of clothing onto. Then, he beckoned him further inside. “Have a seat. I’ll get you a drink—oh. You don’t drink.”  
          “No, I think I need one.”  
          Ash smiled. He led Max into the living area, where he took a seat on the couch. On the table, he’d already prepared drinks. “I don’t know about you or _him_ ”—he hissed the last word in contempt—“but I’ve always preferred oaked chardonnay.” Handing the Aussie a glass, he watched in a mix of emotions as he downed it with disregard for its taste or strength. Then, he extended the glass out. Ash processed this for a beat before finally, reluctantly, picking up the bottle.  
          “This isn’t wise,” he advised as he re-filled the glass.  
          “It’s necessary,” Max insisted. Once the glass was full again, he took a large swig—half of it in one go. Ash watched him do this. As he took a small sip from his own glass, he tried to estimate how long it would take the chardonnay to hit Max. Not too long, he figured; Max was a small, scrawny man. With how exhausted he seemed, from general fatigue and crying, he’d be blackout drunk in no time.  
          “You should be careful, Maxie. It’s a slippery slope you’re treading.”  
          “I don’t care. It’s better than going insane.”  
           _I could argue_ this _is you going insane_ , Ash wanted to say. He didn’t, though. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. Before long, he stood up and walked around the table to take a seat beside Max on the couch.  
          “So, is this how you’ve decided to cope? Turning to alcohol?”  
          “And you,” Max added.  
          “Why?”  
          “Why which?”  
          Ash looked at him. “Why me?”  
          “You told me you loved me.” His voice quivered as he said this. He looked a complete mess. “Cameron doesn’t, so . . .”  
          “But you love Cameron, don’t you?”  
          “That’s why I need the alcohol.” Again, he raised the glass. “To forget that.” Then, he downed the remainder of its contents.  
          That hadn’t been something Ash considered, but hearing it from Max, he realized how clever it was. If the Aussie was too drunk to know better, he could make a permanent subliminal impression on him. He could replace the writer once and for all. The thought made him smirk, and he took another small swig of his own chardonnay. With his free hand, he reached over and squeezed Max’s thigh. Then, he started rubbing, giving the most attention to the inner side of it. Max let out a shuddering breath at the sensation and allowed him to continue.  
          “Max,” the auditor started, “I . . . have a bit of an odd request.”  
          “What is it?”  
          “Well, I don’t know how to put it into words . . .” The auditor stood, held out a hand again. “Come with me.”  
          Max took his hand and allowed him to guide him into the bedroom, then into the bathroom. Unlike the one in his and Cameron’s suite, Ash’s bathroom had two separate oval mirrors placed over two sinks. The bathtub was larger, as well. After positioning him in front of one of the mirrors, Ash said, “Stay here,” and returned to the bedroom. He rummaged through the bottom of his closet before returning with a purse. Upon opening it, he revealed that it was filled with makeup. Concealer, foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, lipstick, the lot.  
          “Why do you have all that?” Max questioned. His words were beginning to slur together a little.  
          “I bought all this for my late girlfriend,” Ash explained. “I meant to give it all to her, but . . . Yeah.”  
          “Oh. You had a girlfriend, too?”  
          “Tried it out for a few months. Wasn’t for me.” He pulled out the foundation. “Do you know how to apply makeup?”  
          The Aussie shook his head. “Of course not. You . . . You want me to put all that _on_?”  
          “Your face is gorgeous, Maxie. I’m only curious.” Unscrewing the cap from the foundation tube, he then squirted some of it onto his fingertips. “Hold your hair back for me. Let’s make you the prettiest person in Zürich.”  
          Hearing those words, he couldn’t help but think of Stacey. He’d thought she was the prettiest girl in Boston. Despite the similar wording and his own reluctance, he did as he was told. The pale cream was cold on his skin. Ash rubbed in it evenly, making sure not to miss any spots. He even rubbed it along the length of Max’s throat and neck.  
          “Take off your sweater.”  
          Max used one of his hands to unzip his hoodie. Underneath, he wore a black baseball tee.  
          “Take that off, too.”  
          Ash stepped back and he obeyed. Once his upper body was uncovered, the auditor squirted out some more foundation. He worked it in, over the full length of Max’s collarbone. Then, he returned to the bag and pulled out a stick of concealer. This, he rubbed across Max’s eyelids. With delicate movements, he blended it in until the Aussie’s dark circles and bruises became only faint shadows. Once done, he ran the concealer across his nose and cheekbones, then blended those strokes, too. Between his eyebrows, across his forehead, then also across the top of his jawline.  
          “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Max asked, hesitant.  
          “Yes,” Ash insisted as he used his fingers to keep blending.  
          “Because it doesn’t look like you do.”  
          From the bag, he produced a darker concealer. Without replying, he ran this along the sides of Max’s nose, under his cheekbones, around his hairline, and across his jaw. Blending this created a stark contour effect. The Aussie wasn’t sure how he felt about this, but so far they’d spent at least five minutes on it. By now, he was starting to feel kind of drunk. The makeup reminded him of Stacey, or rather, the character he’d based off of her. That version of Stacey always wore heavy makeup like this.  
          Ash wasn’t finished yet, though. Next, he took out eye shadow. Using a brush, he guided the brown makeup across Max’s upper eyelid, then made a line at the top of the lower one. In his growing intoxication, it was getting harder for Max to recognize the person in the mirror as himself.  
          An application of dark brown eyeliner and thick black mascara later, Ash revealed a hot pink lipstick. He ran it along Max’s lips.  
          “Pucker,” he instructed. “Do some kisses to even it out.”  
          Max wasn’t too clear on what this meant, so he responded by smacking his lips together with an uncertain look.  
          “Good.” Lip gloss was added. “Again . . . Good.” With small touches of pink blush, Ash finished by brushing on a layer of finishing power. “Let your hair down.”  
          The Aussie’s messy brown hair swung down into its normal style. Then, Ash gawked at his reflection before turning him to look at him directly. A childlike smile spread onto his open mouth.  
          “Wow. You make a beautiful woman, Maxie.” He reached out and fluffed up the side of his hair. “Beautiful. _Beau_ tiful.”  
          Max looked at himself in the mirror again. “I look . . . like a bloody drag queen,” he complained. “Crikey . . .”  
          “We’re not done yet. There’s something else I want to see.” Ash rushed out. While he was gone, Max leaned in closer to the mirror, squinting at his reflection.  
          “Crikey,” he repeated to himself, under his breath. Then, forgetting he was looking at a mirror, he giggled drunkenly. “Hey, you’re pretty hot . . .” Upon trying to reach out and touch this flat-chested girl in the mirror, his hand struck an invisible wall. Hers did too, it seemed, as it was against his but he couldn’t feel it. He tapped it with his finger, then pulled his hand back and brought his fingers to his lips. He let out a coy, somewhat-bashful snicker.  
          Ash returned with something in his hands. “Max, change into this.”  
          The Aussie turned his head and looked. There was a dress in his hands, but that wasn’t what made Max’s heart sink. No, that was the color; it was olive green.  
           _That’s . . . That was Stacey’s favorite color . . ._  
          “Another present for my girlfriend,” Ash explained as he set it down on the counter. “This, too.” Beside the dress, he placed a six-rowed diamond bracelet. “I guess it was a little hasty of me, buying everything at once without knowing if she’d want any of it. But now I can put it all to good use, so I don’t regret it.” He grinned at Max. “They should fit you fine. I’ll be waiting for you in the living room.”  
          It wasn’t until Ash left him alone that he returned his eyes to the dress. It was a simple spring dress, with a square neckline and cap sleeves. No pattern, only flat olive green. The mere thought of putting it on felt blasphemous. Yet, for some reason, Max found himself _extremely_ aroused.  
           _Did he drug me again_ , he wondered, _or am I super turned on by cross-dressing?_ As he stood in front of the dress, he fidgeted from how tight his pants felt all of a sudden. _This is stupid and weird. This is stupid, weird, and creepy. Not to mention sudden._ He teethed at one of his fingernails. _Why does it feel like I’ve thought that before?_  
          Almost before he knew what he was doing, he’d kicked off his jeans and briefs. In the process, his shoes went with them. Then, he was pulling the dress over his head. Around his chest and shoulders, it was a bit of a tight fit, but not to the point of being uncomfortable. He hadn’t even noticed the shoes Ash had laid underneath; red heels with pointed toes.  
           _Okay, this is getting stupid now . . ._ But that didn’t stop him from slipping the shoes on. What surprised him was that they actually fit his feet. _There’s no place like home._ It was surreal, the way they made him taller. Being drunk didn’t help him keep his balance. He slipped on the bracelet before glancing at himself in the mirror again.  
           _Holy shit_ was all he could think. Ash was right; if he ignored the fact that he was looking at himself, the man in the mirror _did_ make a gorgeous woman. With a groan, he leaned forward against the counter. He was exhausted and drunk beyond belief, but uncomfortably hard at the same time. To add to the illusion, he tried to tuck it away. Then, using the walls as support, he stumbled on the heels toward the living area. Each brush of his erection against his thighs made him shiver.  
           _He must’ve drugged me. With what, I don’t know, but good_ God _I’ve never felt like this before. I need release. Immediately._  
          Even touching the walls felt arousing. Every little fiber in the wallpaper traced over his fingers was like a spark. His body felt like it was on fire. By the time he got to the living room, he felt half-crazed. “Ash . . .”  
          The auditor, sitting in the same chair as before, turned his head to look at Max over his shoulder. He waited for a moment, then said, “Stand in front of me.”  
          Max came off the wall and wobbled over. Once he was in front of him, Ash looked him over from head to toe, slowly, taking in everything about him.  
          “Do you want me?” he asked.  
          “Yes,” Max gasped. “God, yes. Please.”  
          Ash considered that for a beat.  
           _He’s taking too long. Go faster! I’m going fuckin’ crazy . . . !_  
          Without saying anything, Ash raised his hands. Max watched as he unfastened his belt and unzipped his pants. A few seconds later, he pulled out his dick. Then, he leaned back, knees far apart.  
          “I want you to get your lipstick all over my cock, Maxie,” he ordered.  
          Max hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He stepped closer and sunk to his knees between Ash’s. As he stared at it, he tried to prepare himself. Before he could do or say anything, though, Ash leaned forward.  
          “Hold still.” He moved his hands past Max’s neck and clasped something. When he pulled back, the Aussie glanced down; it was a golden heart pendant. Thinking nothing of it, Max returned his focus to the previous instruction.  
           _I’ve never done this before . . ._  
          “I’ve never done this before.”  
          “Don’t worry. I’ll guide you through it.”  
          Reassured by that, Max took hold of Ash’s member.  
          “Lick it first,” he instructed. “Like a lollipop.”  
          The Aussie did as he was told. It was a lot less unpleasant than he’d expected. So, he kept lapping until finally he felt it starting to swell in his hand. Without instruction, he started to stroke the base. He figured he was right to do so when Ash let out a small but pleasant sigh.  
          “That’s good. Now put the head in your mouth.”  
          Max obeyed. As he moved his head back and forth, though, Ash flinched.  
          “Cover your teeth with your lips,” he snapped in a low voice.  
          Being so drunk, this was difficult for Max to achieve, but he tried his best.  
          “That’s better.” Ash’s hand pressed down on the back of Max’s head. All at once, he forced the rest of his cock into his mouth. This made Max jolt and gag. He managed to pull his head away only an inch or two before he was forced back down. This repeated a few times before Max realized his pulling away was exactly what Ash was looking for. “Stroke faster.”  
          Max sucked on Ash’s member, running his tongue around it. At the same time, he started pumping his hand up and down on the base harder. A few seconds later, he couldn’t control it anymore; his other hand reached under the dress and started jerking himself off. All of his sensations were heightened to an unnatural degree. It was impossible to tell if he was on the edge or not. He’d felt like he was for the past couple of minutes, but was still rock hard. But the instant he noticed what he was doing, Ash barked,  
          “No! Focus on me first. I’ll get to you in a minute. It’ll be worth the wait, I promise you.”  
          Max pulled his hand away from himself, which was a challenge in and of itself. He started to moan against the rod in his mouth, trying to talk to no avail. Soon, Ash was breathing hard.  
          “Maxie, I—ah, I’m—I’m about to”—when Max tried to pull away, he forced his head back down—“No, I want you to take it! S-swallow it. Ah.”  
          The artist continued to suck and stroke on Ash’s swollen erection as it throbbed. It only took a few seconds more of this for Ash to choke. A bitter, viscous fluid gushed out into the back of Max’s mouth. As he came, he allowed Max to pull back; sliding out, one last strand of come leaked down the Aussie’s chin. He breathed hard and stared down at him; he seemed to be having difficulty getting his seed down.  
          “If you don’t swallow that, I’ll tie you up and won’t let you finish,” he threatened.  
          Max gagged a bit, but finally managed to force himself to swallow Ash’s load.  
          “Atta boy.” Ash leaned his head back as he panted, trying to stabilize his breathing. Meanwhile, Max fidgeted, panting as well. His whole body was quivering like a dying leaf. He tried to wait, but Ash was taking too long to recover, so he groaned in protest.  
          “Ash!”  
          The auditor raised his head. “Hmm?”  
          “I’m—I need—release! Please, let me _do_ something!”  
          A more approving hum. Then, he sat upright and clasped his hands. “I want to watch you touch yourself, Max.”  
          Eager, Max shuffled back a bit and lifted the dress.  
          “But _don’t_ finish,” Ash added with sadistic glee.  
          Max looked up at him in despair, but resumed touching himself anyway. With one hand placed firm against the floor, he spread his knees apart somewhat. Crouching there, he was able to be harder with his strokes. Ash watched him like he was watching a science experiment, face showing no emotion. Max, on the other hand, was fast looking even more disheveled than before. His makeup-slathered face was flushed, he was sweating, and because his mouth hung open, he was even starting to drool. All the while, he made louder and louder noises of both immense pleasure and discomfort. His body felt like it was burning up, to which he accredited his frenzy.  
          Not being able to finish was a nightmare. He couldn’t stop himself from stroking, but he felt like he was about to die. With the hand he’d placed against the floor, he reached up and mussed up his own hair. Then, he started tugging on it, biting on his lower lip. Once it felt like he was about to see heaven’s gate, he cried out.  
          “Ash, _please_!”  
          Finally, Ash reached out. He forced Max to let go of himself, then pushed him down. Shouting, the Aussie writhed on the floor. Without any further delay, the auditor lowered his head and returned the favor, beginning to suck Max off.  
          “ _Oh_ , _God_! _Ash_! _Aaah_!” Max screamed as he reached his hands down, pushing Ash’s head down further. He started arching his chest up off of the floor. “ _Aash_!”  
          Ash forced himself off. “Max,” he gasped, “I have another request.”  
          “Anything, God, please, just don’t stop!”  
          To make up for the delay, Ash licked the underside of Max’s throbbing arousal. “Anything? Will you do anything?”  
          “Yes!”  
          “You promise?”  
          “ _Yes_!”  
          Ash moved his head back down. As he sucked hard, he pumped wildly on the shaft. With his other hand, he massaged the patch of skin just behind Max’s groin. The stimulation of his prostate combined with the rapid pressure on his cock made Max belt out a loud cry. As he started to come, Ash pulled back to take it on his face. Moving fast, wanting to do what he needed to do before the Aussie came down from orgasm, he moved up.  
          “Max.”  
          Muscles still contracting, he only managed to open one eye to look at him. He watched as Ash rubbed some of his seed off of his face, onto his fingers, then licked it off. This only helped to extend his painful delight. As he choked out a smaller cry for a second wave of pleasure, Ash leaned down. With his hot breath, against his ear, he husked,  
          “I want you to kill Cameron.”


	10. Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 9th, 2018.

The following two days passed with little event. To Cameron, it was somewhat alarming, not because things felt normal, but because they should’ve, but _didn’t_. Max avoided the subject of Ash altogether. There were no more texts, no slipping away and disappearing for an hour or two. Plus, Max didn’t seem sad anymore. But that was the problem. He wasn’t sad anymore. In fact, he was happier than ever. All the while, though, he still regarded Cameron with a twinge of contempt.  
          On the night of the 29 th, when Max suggested they have sex, Cameron got the sudden vibe that the tables had turned. He’d been the one to stay up all night this time. The hours passed with him wondering what had changed. His own bout of hate sex with Ash hadn’t been _that_ good; the bastard had even left before giving him a go. That didn’t worry him. But since returning on the evening of the 28 th, Max had been acting a lot different. He’d taken him to Switzerland in the hopes of _fixing_ his crumbling psyche. Now, it’d shattered.  
          He couldn’t call what Max displayed “confidence”, but it was certainly disguised as that. Almost like he saw himself as _better_ than him. Like he was _studying_ him, trying to find some weakness. Cameron didn’t like it. At this rate, he’d almost say he liked it better when Max was miserable. There was something heavy weighing on his heart now.  
          He didn’t want to say he was afraid of Max, because he didn’t think he was. But something about this abrupt transformation made him nervous. The Aussie had spent all of the 29 th with an eye on him. Until offering sex, he’d said virtually nothing. They’d had dinner together, and Max actually ordered himself a drink. He smiled at the waiter and ordered, freely. Cameron had said nothing at all. Max ordered for him. It was all very strange. Cameron felt like an introvert again—like all his hard work to convert to extroversion had been for naught. Whereas Max had never seemed so extroverted.  
          “Cameron,” he’d asked, tone dry, “how’s writing going?”  
          Cameron had only stared at him.  
          “Cat got your tongue?”  
          Still, he hadn’t answered. Max’s response had been to smirk and start eating. Feeling lost, Cameron had picked up his glass and proceeded to wonder where _his_ Max had gone.  
          That night, Max had still screamed. Cameron took solace in that much and held him until he quieted. But upon waking up in the morning, he was again different. Now, he was lounging on the bed, skimming through a book. He wasn’t reading it; he turned the pages too fast for that.  
          Cameron, meanwhile, sat on the furthest yellow chair from the bed. He tried to seem casual, but the way he stared at nothing must’ve been giving it away.  
          “Did I fuck up?” he asked.  
          “Yep,” Max responded, matter-of-fact. He flipped past another set of pages.  
          “How?”  
          No answer this time. Something about the silence only unnerved him further. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have to admit he felt like prey. But Max wouldn’t attack him . . . Would he? Now, anything seemed fair game. Who knew what he might do? Because he was stronger, he knew Max knew a direct murder wouldn’t work. Hence why he was biding his time. He was waiting for an opportunity to get the jump on him. This didn’t worry him, either. It was a surprise to Cameron, discovering that his concern wasn’t that Max might kill him. It was that Max might kill him without thinking it through. He’d fuck up somewhere and get himself caught and arrested, or he’d turn himself in afterward.  
          So, if it was at all possible, he had to find a way to fix things between them. He missed his Max. He wanted him back. But how to pull him out?  
          Cameron had an idea. A risky idea, but an idea nonetheless. It was time for a power play. Time to show that he was still well in control of their lives.  
          From his blazer, he pulled out his cellphone. “I’m going out into the hallway to make a phone call,” he said.  
          “Why out there?” Max asked. “Make it here. I won’t listen.” He would.  
          “No, I’d prefer to make it in private.”  
          Max glared at him. Their eyes locked in a momentary power struggle. Then, Max looked back down at his book. “Fine. Do what you want.”  
          Cameron stood up from his chair. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he headed for the door. There was no reply, so he opened it, closed it behind himself. Once out in the hall, he took a deep breath. He felt confident that Max would lean against the door to listen in. So, rather than stand in front of it, he stepped to the other side of the hall and turned to face it. Finally, he brought his attention to his phone. Toward the bottom of his contact list (among which he still had August), he found a number he hadn’t called in years. Now, he tried to call it. What were the odds of them changing their number? They hardly knew how to work a phone to begin with.  
          After a few rings, his grandmother answered: “Hello?”  
          “Hi, Dottie. It’s Cameron.”  
          “Cameron! How good to hear from you again!”  
          “Yeah.” He decided to get straight to the point, not feeling up to faking small talk. “Listen, I wanted to know if you and Chandler would mind having Max and I over for dinner tonight.”  
          “Oh, not at all, dear! We’d love to!”  
          “Great, thanks . . .”  
          “Any dietary restrictions I should know about? Dairy, meat?”  
          “No, we’re not, uh, picky.”  
          “Good, good! I’ll prepare a nice big meal with beef and—any preference of sides, dear?”  
          He didn’t care. Dinner wasn’t his primary concern. “Anything’s fine, Dottie. Do whatever.”  
          “You know how indecisive I am.”  
          “Ask Chandler.”  
          “Oh, that man’s not useful for anything. ‘I don’t know’ this and ‘I don’t care’ that.”  
          “You don’t need to overthink it. Make whatever you want.”  
          The old woman sighed. “Well, when should we be expecting you two?”  
          “Um, five? No, six. Let’s make it six.”  
          “Why not five?”  
          “I’m coming at six.”  
          “All right, if you’d prefer.”  
          Silence for a beat, as Cameron considered his next move.  
          “Cameron?”  
          “Hmm?”  
          “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you wanting to spend time with us”—that wasn’t his reason, but he didn’t say so—“but . . . Why now? Is something the matter?”  
          Cameron paused, then confessed, “No, I mean . . . Max has been acting a little bit unusual lately, that’s all. I think he’s stressed out.”  
          “Oh, poor thing.”  
          “So, I thought I’d try to, uh, give him a break. You know, make him feel welcome in the family rather than take him out to some fancy restaurant.”  
          “That’s a great idea,” Dottie assured. “Very thoughtful of you.”  
          “You think?”  
          “Absolutely. We’ll make him feel right at home, dear, don’t you worry. Should I try to make something Australian, then?”  
          “Why would you do that?”  
          “Well, he didn’t talk much, but I thought I heard an Australian accent in his voice.”  
          “Um . . .” Cameron thought about it. Would Max appreciate an attempt, or would he take it as an insult? At this point, it was hard to tell. “I don’t know, Dottie.”  
          “Does he not like Australian cuisine?”  
          “I’m . . . not sure.”  
          She scoffed in mild amusement. “You’ve been dating for two years and don’t know what kind of food he likes?”  
          “I’ve never . . . uh, asked. He eats whatever I eat, usually.”  
          “Tut, tut. I’ll make something Australian.”  
          “No, don’t. Do something . . . Swiss. British. American, I don’t know. Anything but Australian.” Australian was too big a risk. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate Max with a botched attempt at his home country’s cooking.  
          “Well, I’d better go shopping for ingredients. I love you, dear.”  
          “Right,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”  
          “Bye for now.”  
          “Yeah.”  
          He hung up. Then, for a minute or two, he remained there, leaning against the wall. There was a temptation to walk off down the hall, to call Max and give him the news without having to see him again until six. But if he left the Aussie alone any longer, it could give him a chance to slink away with Ash. So, he swallowed his uncertainty and returned his phone to his pocket. In doing so, he pulled out the keycard, using it to open the door. When it swung open, he saw Max standing a step away. The sight almost got a jolt out of him. As he closed the door behind himself, he said nothing, waiting for the Aussie to speak first.  
          “So, who was that?” Max asked.  
          “How much did you hear?” Cameron inquired back.  
          “Enough.”  
          “Then I shouldn’t need to tell you that we’re having dinner at my grandparents’ house at six.”  
          Max said nothing for a beat, giving away that he’d not heard anything through the door. “Why not here?”  
          “I thought you’d appreciate a smaller gathering.”  
          “With two people I don’t know? Being forced to talk to them?”  
          “You don’t have to say anything.”  
          “Kind of rude not to, don’t you think?”  
          “Who cares? They’ll be dead in a few years, anyway.” Cameron pushed past, returning to his chair.  
          “Hey, Cameron?”  
          “Yes?”  
          The Aussie leaned against the wall, looking at him. “What do you think when you hear about parents who outlive their children?”  
          The writer sat down. The question seemed more like a warning than anything. “Nothing. I guess it’s kind of strange. You might get a better answer from Dottie and Chandler, though.”  
          “Why’s that?”  
          Cameron looked at him. “Because they outlived theirs.”  
          It took the Aussie a beat to process this. “You never told me your mother was dead.”  
          A bitter laugh. “I’m the son of Desdemona and Othello,” he explained. “Except Othello didn’t feel any grief.”  
          For the next seven hours, they went back to saying little to nothing to each other. Max checked his phone a few times as it dinged, but as far as Cameron could tell, never sent any texts himself. At 5:30 PM, Max was the one who suggested they get ready. Before he knew it, they were in a taxi again, driving toward his grandparents’ place. During the drive, Max finally sent a text.  
          They arrived at 5:55. Cameron knocked on the door, with Max hovering a step back. Dottie welcomed them inside. Ten minutes later, all four of them sat around the dining table. Max had taken the seat closest to the wall, furthest away from Cameron and his grandparents. Dottie was across from him, with Cameron and Chandler across from each other in front of her. There two like seats in front of Max, the table meant to seat six. Yet the Aussie had moved himself to the most inconvenient seat. This was unlike him, but not unexpected at this point.  
          Dottie had wound up making a pot roast: baked beef roast with mashed potatoes and vegetables on the side.  
          “So, Cameron,” Chandler began as he shook out some pepper onto his roast. “What’ve you been doing with yourself since we last heard from you?”  
          Assuming he was referring to the years rather than days, Cameron answered, “Not much since I graduated from college.”  
          “Ah, that much we did hear.”  
          “Oh. So, you’re still in touch with him, then?”  
          Chandler shrugged. “He tells us things, sometimes.”  
          Whether he realized they were talking about him or not, Max chimed in, “You know, I’ve never met Cameron’s father. What’s he like?”  
          Everyone else at the table froze, including Cameron himself. Max, meanwhile, cheerily used his knife to cut at his beef.  
          Chandler was the first to regain his composure. With an awkward laugh, he shook out a little bit more pepper. “I suppose Cameron’s never told you, then.”  
          “Never told me what?”  
          Dottie contributed, “Derrick’s a bit of a . . . _taboo_ subject in this house.”  
          Max looked at Cameron—watched the way he seemed to shrink a bit with that comment. This pleased him, but he didn’t say so. He speared a piece of meat on his fork, then ate it. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “This is delicious.”  
          The rest of the meal was a quiet affair, at least for Cameron. First, he noticed that Max hardly acknowledged him. Then, the Aussie wouldn’t stop staring at him. At some point, his knife disappeared from the table altogether. Cameron harbored no doubt that he’d hidden it in his sleeve for later.  
          Once dinner was finished, Cameron proposed to his grandparents: “Max and I might stay the night. How’s the guest room?”  
          Dottie perked up. “Well, I’ve been using it as a storage room, but if you don’t mind walking around boxes . . .”  
          “That’s fine. Isn’t it, Max?”  
          The Aussie continued to eye him. “Yeah.”  
          Cameron glanced at the dishes as Dottie dutifully scooped them away. “Dottie, I’d be more than willing to help you wash up.”  
          “Oh, that’s fine, dear. You and your boyfriend had better see if the guest room is to your liking. The bed’s kind of . . . small.”  
          “Still the queen bed, right?”  
          “That’d be it.”  
          “It’ll be fine. I’m going to take a shower first, so Max can—”  
          “A shower? I’ll join you,” Max chirped.  
          Dottie and Chandler shot each other a glance, but said nothing. At the same time, Cameron glanced at Max. He’d always offered, but they’d never actually bathed together. His pleasure to do so now struck him as a bad sign, though.  
          “Really?” he asked. “I mean, if you want. I don’t mind.”  
          “Is that . . . efficient?” Dottie inquired.  
          The writer whipped his gaze onto her. “What’s that supposed to mean? People shower together all the time.”  
          She shook her head, but couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she replied: “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”  
          Max watched this tense exchange and felt a nervous shiver, but he smothered it. Tempted as he was to inform them that he wasn’t gay, he knew after Ash that was likely untrue. When Cameron turned to look at him again, he lowered his hand under the table.  
           _Has he noticed? He must’ve. I saw him look for the knife._  
          “Let’s go, Max.”  
          The Aussie nodded. In his fist, he balled up the end of his sleeve, to prevent the knife from falling out. They went upstairs together. At the top of the staircase, Cameron gestured to the door straight ahead.  
          “This is the bathroom,” he revealed. “Guest room should be”—pivoted to the right, pointed at the first door of the upstairs hall—“there. Man, I haven’t been up here in _years_.”  
          Max said nothing. He followed the writer into the bathroom, which was a tad cramped. The shower was part of a bathtub that wouldn’t fit them both unless they scissored their legs. Standing and showering seemed impractical for two people; possible, but not efficient.  
           _Hmm. Seems that wasn’t as much of a homophobic remark as we thought._  
          As Cameron moved toward the bathtub and started the water, Max sat down on the lid of the toilet seat. “I know you don’t like the water too hot when you take a bath,” he observed, “but does that carry over into showers?”  
          “Why? How do you like it?” Max droned.  
          “Scalding,” Cameron answered. “But I’ll deal with warm.” He pulled a tab above the faucet, starting the showerhead. Then, he continued fiddling with the temperature.  
          As he did this, Max bent his hand and inched the knife up to clutch its grip. Its silver blade now poked out from his sleeve, but because he had his back to him, Cameron was unaware of it. The Aussie stared at him.  
           _This is it. With this, I’ll be free. Stacey, August, Val . . . I’ll avenge everyone that Cameron’s killed in one fell swoop._  
          Being as quiet as he could, Max stood. If Cameron noticed, he didn’t show it.  
           _“Kill him, Max.”_ The sound of Stacey’s voice urging him in his head led him to raise the knife. The others joined her.  
           _“Kill him, Max.”_  
           _“Kill him, Max.”_  
          Max’s nervous trembling stopped. Murder was all that was on his mind. He felt tempted to whisper Cameron’s name, to make him turn to face him as he stabbed him to death.  
           _“Kill him, Max.”_  
          But that’d open too many risks. He felt himself smile a little. Literally stabbing Cameron in the back seemed only fitting. After all, it looked like he trusted him, since he hadn’t already turned to stop him. He held the knife tighter.  
           _Kill him, Max._  
          When he swung downward with the knife, the writer dodged. At the instant Max realized he’d been played, he lunged at him. Grabbing his sweater, he pinned the Aussie to the wall. Before he could stab the writer in the gut, he slapped him across the face hard. Then, gripping his shoulders, he shook him.  
          “Max, snap out of it!” he ordered.  
          Stunned by the reversal, Max gazed at Cameron. For the first time that night, he looked him in the eyes and recognized their color. For the first time that night, he looked at him and recalled that he was the man he’d unwittingly fallen in love with. Their positioning reminded him of the first night they’d met. He’d tried to run, only for Cameron to pin him against a stairwell wall like how he pinned him to the bathroom wall now. The fear and excitement of that night flooded back to him all at once.  
          “Cameron,” the name tumbled from his lips on a mere breath. Feeling something in his hand, he looked down and saw the knife. Only then did he recall what he’d been about to do. Like it burned him, he let go of the blade, allowing it to fall to the floor.  
           _Oh, God. I almost . . . What’s happened to me?_  
          He looked back at Cameron and felt his nose burn for a moment, tears starting to form. “Cameron, I . . . I’m sorry! I-I don’t know what’s happening to me . . . !” Lowering his head, he shook it. “It’s like there’s another me—a different _person_ —and he took over my body! I don’t know why I did any of that!” When Cameron released his shoulders, he crumpled to his knees in front of him.  
          “I’m scared, Cameron. I’m so scared of myself. I remember everything from the past three days, but I had no control over anything I did! I’m going crazy . . . !”  
          “Max.”  
          “C’mon, hit me already. Try to drown me again. I need to be punished, don’t I? But I know I’m gonna try to do it again, and—”  
          “ _Max_.” Cameron got down onto his knees, too. Pitiful, the Aussie looked up at him again.  
          “Who were you cheating on me with?”  
          Cameron didn’t look as taken aback by the question as he’d expected. Instead, he answered, honest: “It was Ash.”  
          This made Max recoil a bit. “What?”  
          “And I _wasn’t_ cheating on you. It was a show of dominance, nothing more. His idea.”  
          Max shook his head. “No. No, why . . . Why should I believe that?”  
          “Because I don’t like lying. Especially not to you.”  
          He gazed at Cameron for a long pause. Believing a psychopath was naïve, if not dangerous. But the firm expression on his face and the sincerity of his tone made Max feel that he couldn’t be lying. Cameron wouldn’t lie to him, he liked him too much for that. All the little things, things he’d hardly noticed, finally started to occur to him.  
           _He brought me to Zürich to make me feel better. He introduced me to his grandparents—to his family, in part. When I called him for help, he came running to find me and searched all night. He kept offering to hold me, because I told him I liked it. He kept wanting to know what happened to me, if I was okay. And when he noticed I was acting weird, he brought me here, to have dinner with his family . . ._  
          There were tears in his eyes now as he met Cameron’s stare. From one, the water spilled down his cheek. Then, the other followed suit a few seconds later.  
           _He loves me, doesn’t he? He doesn’t realize it, or doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but . . . he loves me._  
          Max bit his lower lip and sniffled. “Cameron . . . I’m so sorry. I’ve been such a”—he wasn’t able to finish, because Cameron kissed him. Without any hesitation, he threw his arms around his shoulders and kissed him back. Even if he couldn’t get Cameron to confess his feelings in words, being with him would be enough. Because the longer they were together, the more he confessed in actions.


	11. Ecstasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 10th, 2018.

As new and exciting as it seemed, they ultimately decided to skip out on showering together. The water was too cold for Cameron, but too hot for Max. So, rather than bother, they stopped the water and jumped into the guest room together. After having sex and falling asleep, they woke up later and did the same. It was half past eleven in the morning when Max finally woke up again. The first thing he noticed was that Cameron was still asleep, which was a bit odd.  
          With a deep breath, he laid his head back onto the pillow and gazed at the ceiling. For the first time in a long time, he woke up feeling like his old self. All it took was some wild, passionate sex. As he laid there, he moved his hand up to his throat. He adjusted the chain around his neck until he held the heart pendant from Ash in his fingers. Then, he fiddled with it, debating whether he should remove it or not. He didn’t have long to ponder before Cameron stretched in bed.  
          “Max, you awake?” he asked through a groan.  
          “Yeah,” Max answered in a soft voice.  
          “Oh. Good morning.”  
          “G’morning.”  
          “How do you feel?”  
          “Good.” Max rubbed the pendant. “A little bad, though.”  
          Cameron looked at him. “Why?”  
          “Last night, I thought . . . When I was about to stab you, my motivation was that I’d be avenging everyone you’ve killed. But then we had sex again.” He scoffed. “Twice.”  
          The writer turned over. “Well, we could make that _thrice_.”  
          Max chuckled and gave him a gentle slap on the arm. “Down, boy.”  
          Cameron let out a playful growl and extended his hands. He started tickling the Aussie, making him laugh and fight.  
          “Cameron, cut it out! Ha ha!”  
          With a chuckle of his own, the writer laid back down. Then, after a beat of silence, he asked, “Ashton told you to kill me, didn’t he?”  
          The Aussie sobered a bit. “Yeah.”  
          “Smart.”  
          “‘Smart’?”  
          “Getting you to kill me yourself, I mean. He told me he’d meant to kill me, but that he had a better idea. I guess that was it. Cunning bastard.” He stretched his legs out. “We need to do something about him.”  
          “Like what?”  
          Cameron shrugged. “I’ll come up with something. In the meantime, how about we go downstairs and eat something?”  
          Max nodded. “Sure.”  
          The writer sat up and picked his clothes off the floor. “You sure you don’t want to go again?”  
          “Maybe next time it’s dark out,” Max offered, a tad amused.  
          “Curse you, sun.” As he stood and pulled on his pants, he asked, “Why don’t you like the idea of fucking in daylight?”  
          Max sat up as well. “Well, most people are either asleep or going to sleep at night. Less chance of someone hearing or coming in unannounced.”  
          Cameron raised a brow at him. “What about back in Pittsburgh? We live alone.”  
          He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe I feel less inhibited at night.”  
          “Does it matter anymore?”  
          “What do you mean?”  
          “I assume you fucked Ashton around noon a few days ago, right?”  
          Max felt himself blush out of shame and embarrassment. “How do you know that?”  
          “Because you came back before the sun set with that pendant around your neck.” When Max held it again, he added, “What, you thought I didn’t notice it?”  
          “I tried to keep it hidden until last night . . .”  
          “Well, you suck at hiding things. But the knife was kind of clever. I didn’t realize you’d hid it until I noticed it was gone.”  
          Max was reluctant in responding, because he wasn’t sure if this was the correct response: “Thanks . . .”  
          “Hmm . . . That makes me think. Ashton trusts you, right?”  
          He clutched the pendant tighter. “I’m not going to kill him.”  
          “Nobody knows you know him. You’re low-profile enough that no one would even _consider_ you as a suspect. All you’d have to do is poison him, and—”  
          “Cameron, no. I have enough blood on my hands already. I refuse to be involved in this insane plot of yours.”  
          Cameron gave him a strange look as he threw on his shirt. “You, blood on your hands? I wish. That’d be something.”  
          Max decided not to mention August, unsure if he’d be able to handle it.  
          “Well? Are you coming downstairs naked, or are you going to get dressed?”  
          “Right. Sorry.”  
          By one in the afternoon, they were back in their suite. Max sat on one of the chairs as Cameron paced back and forth. Every so often, the writer would announce a plan.  
          “All right, how about this: we lure him to my grandparents’ house. Dottie makes some tea. I’ll ask how many sugar cubes he wants. Instead of sugar, I slip in some arsenic.”  
          “Three problems,” Max replied. “One, where are you going to get the arsenic? Two, what do we do with the body?”  
          There was a pause. Cameron glanced at him. “What’s the third?”  
          “I don’t think he likes sugar.”  
          “Son of a bitch.” The writer crossed his arms and rubbed his chin in thought. “Umm.” He snapped his fingers a few times. “Okay, I’ve got it.”  
          “Do you?”  
          “Yeah. Steal a car and run him over with it.”  
          “That’s the stupidest idea you’ve had yet.”  
          “Oh, and you could come up with something better?”  
          “The hotel’s spa would be a good place to kill someone,” Max contributed. “He never goes to it, though.”  
          Cameron thought about that. “If you invited him there—”  
          “Not gonna happen, mate.”  
          “Ugh. This’d be so much easier if I’d brought the Bashful costume.”  
          “Ah, too right. A giant six-foot tall pink rabbit running around Zürich. I can’t think of a better way for you to stand out like dog’s balls. What happened to your cunning streak?”  
          “I don’t know. I can’t think here. This new environment is suffocating.”  
          Max sighed. “What’s wrong with keeping Ash alive?”  
          “All he needs to do is a little Google searching and sooner or later he’ll find out who you are. If he reports seeing you with me to the police, we’re in deep shit. Next thing you know, we’ll be in questioning, with me forced to explain why you disappeared from Boston two years ago.”  
          “We ran away together.”  
          “So soon after your ex-girlfriend’s murder?”  
          “Well, that detail’s your own fault. I didn’t ask nor want you to do that.”  
          “Anyway”—Cameron stopped himself before he even began, pivoted to look at Max again. “Wait. Did you say ‘Ash’?”  
          The Aussie glanced left, right. “Yeah. Why?”  
          “That . . . sounds familiar somehow, when you say it like that.”  
          “What do you mean?”  
          “I mean, I looked through your bitch ex’s texts and saw who she was cheating on you with. I’m _pretty_ sure it”—cut off again, this time by a knock on the door. He looked at the door, then back at Max, who shook his head. Regardless, he turned and approached. “We didn’t order anything,” he barked through.  
          “I’m not room service,” Ash’s voice responded.  
          Cameron whipped around to look at Max again. The Aussie was tense. “Speak of the devil,” he murmured before turning back to the door. “What do you want, you prick?”  
          “I have a proposition.”  
          “Not interested.”  
          “If you’d hear me out, you’d beg to differ.”  
          The writer bit. “I’m listening.”  
          “I won’t discuss it through a door,” argued the auditor.  
          “Fair enough.” For confirmation, the writer again looked to Max. The Aussie shook his head and swiped his hand across his neck. When he saw the twinkle in Cameron’s dark caramel eyes, though, he knew he’d open the door even before he did it. “Let’s talk, then.”  
          Ash entered, holding himself straight. He had the purse under his arm, which made Max nervous. “Glad to see you’re still alive, Fenn,” he said as Cameron closed the door behind him.  
          “Are you?”  
          “No. To be honest, I was looking forward to hearing about your timely demise.” As he said this, he shot Max an accusing look. The Aussie shrunk a bit in his seat. “I can work with this, though. I suppose it makes things more interesting.”  
          “At least you’re honest,” Cameron said, though he sounded a bit sarcastic. He caught a glimpse of the purse and said, “Uh-oh. Max, we’d better bow down to the alpha gay.”  
          Ash ignored Cameron’s immature response outright. “My proposition.”  
          “By all means.”  
          “Please, take a seat.” The auditor gestured to the free chair beside Max.  
          “No thanks. I’m a lot more comfortable standing.”  
          But Ash didn’t move. After a few seconds, the writer threw his hands up in exasperation. “Well, shit. When you put it that way.” He moved past Ash and sat down in the chair. “This had better be worth my time.”  
          “It will be.”  
          “Then out with it. Stop fucking around.”  
          Ash stared blankly at him. Clearly, his attempts to rile him up were for naught. Still, Max knew Cameron wouldn’t stop teasing him. “I’ll be blunt, then,” he said. “I want to have a threesome.”  
          Neither Cameron nor Max responded first. They both sat there, wondering if they’d heard that right. To confirm, they glanced at each other. When their silent conversation implied they’d both heard the same thing, they turned their eyes back onto Ash. The auditor didn’t seem nervous or anything. He only stood there with the patience of a saint, allowing his request to sink in.  
          “A threesome?” Cameron finally asked. “That’s what you came here to offer?”  
          “I thought it might be a nice show of peace if you survived the night.”  
          “Nice show of peace? You’re asking to fuck Max again.”  
          “But this time I’ll share him. If he couldn’t kill you, he must care about you. So, if it’ll keep him happy, although I don’t advise him staying with you at all, I’ll settle with a _ménage à trois_.”  
          Max stared at Ash, finding himself a little touched, if not surprised. At the same time, though, he was in utter disagreement of such an arrangement. He felt compelled to make a decision between them, and he’d already chosen Cameron. Besides, the idea of having sex with two people at once rattled him.  
           _I shouldn’t worry. Cameron will refuse. I don’t think he wants to share me._  
          Yet, Cameron stayed silent. When Max looked at him, he noticed his contemplative expression.  
           _Oh, bloody hell. You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s not actually considering it, is he?_  
          So, Max spoke for himself: “Ash, I’m not comfortable with that.”  
          A few seconds later, as if he hadn’t heard Max at all, Cameron sat up straighter and declared: “Fine. When do you want to do it?”  
          The Aussie glared at him in annoyance and shock. _Son of a bitch, Cameron! Shut up!_  
          “I mean, we’re all here now,” Ash pointed out.  
          “No,” Max blurted. He crossed his hands, then moved them out in a gesture of refusal. “Nuh-uh. Not a chance.”  
          “What’s the problem? It sounds like fun,” Cameron replied.  
          “Cameron, he’d having a lend of you, mate.”  
          “Come on. It’d be hot. Shouldn’t be too difficult for you, considering you’ve fucked us both already.”  
          “Oh, yeah, it’ll be a piece of piss,” droned the Aussie in intense sarcasm. “You’re a bloody fruit loop.”  
          “I have one ultimatum, though,” Ash revealed.  
          “Being?” Cameron inquired.  
          The auditor held out the purse. “Max has to put this on.”  
          “Okay, no. Absolutely not,” the Aussie spat. “Buckley’s of me doing that. Not no, but _fuck_ no.”  
          “I don’t understand.” Cameron. “What’s in the purse?”  
          Ash answered: “Makeup.”  
          “Wait. Have you seen him in makeup before?”  
          “Yes.”  
          “Bullshit!” He glanced at Max. “Do it. I want to see.”  
          Max shook his head. “I was off my face when I let him put that on me. I’m not doing it again, especially not sober.”  
          “Aww. Please?”  
          “Shut up. Shut your mouth, fruit loop.”  
          “I like that nickname for him,” Ash said. “We should call him that from now on.”  
          “Same goes for you! You’re an even bigger fruit loop than he is!”  
          Cameron tried not to laugh, but didn’t do a great job of hiding his amusement. Ash, on the other hand, didn’t even seem to register the comment.  
          “Maxie,” he said, “you’ve left me with two choices. Believe me when I say _this_ is the one you want to embrace. Be grateful I didn’t pick the alternative.”  
          “Are you trying to scare me into this? I told you, I’m not comfortable with a threesome!”  
          “I don’t know, Max.” Cameron leaned back. He sounded genuine. “I really want to do this. I think it might be good for us.”  
          “Good for us? Do you hear yourself when you talk?”  
          “Let’s give it a shot. You might like it.”  
          “I thought you’d be on my side.”  
          “If you don’t like it, we can always stop,” Ash offered.  
          “I don’t like it. So can we stop now?”  
          “Max, go put on the makeup,” instructed Cameron. “Ashton and I will get ready.”  
          “You guys aren’t even listening to me anymore. Do I not get a say in this?”  
          “I’d like to start before I’m old.”  
          Max rolled his eyes and stood up. Grudgingly, he stepped over to Ash and held out his hand. The auditor gave him the purse; he snatched it out of his hand with contempt.  
          “This is fucking stupid.”  
          “Chop, chop, Max.”  
          “Piss off.” He moved into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. As he sighed and opened the purse, he could hear Cameron and Ash continue talking for a few beats.  
          “What now?” Cameron.  
          “Get undressed.” Ash.  
          “You first.” Cameron again.  
          Max felt tempted to throw himself from a window. _Given my last attempt, though, I wouldn’t be surprised if Cameron’s got a trampoline set up under our suite or something._  
          The purse contained everything he’d seen Ash use before. Thus, the challenge was remembering _how_ Ash had used everything. While the methods stuck, the order didn’t, nor did what was what. So, over the course of the next few minutes, he struggled to recreate the look. The contouring was the hardest for him; somehow the darker concealer seemed too dark now.  
           _Given, I was drunk last time I saw this . . . No help to me now._  
          “Max,” Cameron’s voice called, now sounding closer to the bed. “While you’re at it, take off your clothes.”  
           _I almost wish I_ did _murder you last night._  
          Once he’d finished with the makeup, he took a deep breath and slipped off his clothes piece by piece. Before stepping out, he took a beat to look himself over. Naked but for the heart pendant around his throat, with a full face of makeup.  
           _This is stupid. I look stupid. Why am I doing this? Because I don’t have a choice not to, I reckon._  
          After mentally preparing himself, he finally left the bathroom. On the bed, he found Ash and Cameron sitting beside each other, both also naked. They stared at each other, but he had trouble deciding whether it was out of lust or hatred. Was it both? Almost in sync, they turned their heads to look at him.  
          “Max,” they husked in unison.  
          Max shivered. _This doesn’t feel real. This feels like I’ve walked onto the set of a gay porno. Is this really happening?_  
          Ash was the first to get off the bed. He offered his hand, so the Aussie took it with reluctance. A few seconds later, he was kneeling on the bed. Unsure of what to do, he stayed still until Cameron and Ash took their places behind and in front of him. Ash kneeled before him and took hold of his own arousal. Its proximity to his face gave Max hint enough that he was to suck it. Feeling a little nervous, he gave in. As he started working up the auditor’s cock, he could hear Cameron slathering his own with lubricant.  
           _That’s new. He must’ve borrowed that from Ash._  
          It felt strange, doing this on the bed in the daylight. The window to his right was almost glowing. At least in Ash’s suite, it could’ve passed as nighttime . . .  
          Cameron slid in, causing the Aussie to tense. He made a noise against the member in his mouth; Ash arched in further in approval.  
           _What’s going on? I still can’t believe this. Of all the things I’d imagine myself doing with Cameron, this wasn’t any of them._  
          The two of them took turns arching in and out of their respective entrances. Max’s head felt like it was swimming. As the pleasure from Cameron ramped up, he started showing more love to Ash. Before he knew it, he was using a hand to stroke himself at the same time.  
           _All I can taste is lipstick . . ._  
          His head was forced down harder onto Ash’s cock. With it pressing against the back of his throat, he had trouble but managed to strangle his gag reflex. Cameron moved deeper into him at the same time, thumping against his prostate. This got a small cry out of him, muffled behind Ash.  
          “Would you like a go at this, Fenn?” Ash asked.  
          “I’m not a big fan of oral,” was Cameron’s response.  
          “Well, that’s problematic, isn’t it? I’d like to switch places with you for a bit.”  
          Cameron gave no response to Ash. He rocked deeper still into Max, making him cry out again. The way he stroked himself became a little wilder and harder.  
          “Hmm. I have an idea.”  
          “What?”  
          “You don’t have to stop. We can take him together.”  
          The Aussie’s strokes slowed, his eyes opening as if to be more attentive.  
          “What, you mean, like . . .”  
          “Both of us inside him at the same time.”  
           _No way. There’s—there’s no way!_  
          “One problem, Ashton. I doubt we’d both fit. Max is tight as it is . . .”  
          “With enough lube, Cameron, anything’s possible. Think about it: it’s double the stimulation for everyone.”  
          Max tried to pull his head back to protest, but Ash was holding him down.  
           _He’s insane! That’d hurt heaps! Cameron, don’t let him try that!_  
          “Okay, well, I lied. There’s two problems, the other being that even if we _did_ both fit, he’s . . . sensitive. Besides, he’s already on the edge. If we both managed to get inside of him, he’d—”  
          “Not if we’re slow about it.”  
          Ash finally released Max, who pulled himself free. As he gasped for air, he shouted, “No! Don’t you bastards dare!”  
          “Max, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s got a point. It might work.”  
          “You blokes are trying to kill me!”  
          “It won’t hurt as much as you think,” Ash assured. “It’ll be the same, only with twice the movement.”  
          “I can’t! I can barely fit one of you, let alone two!”  
          “This or nothing. Do you want to finish, Maxie?”  
          The Aussie looked up at him in despair. “You’re cruel!”  
          “Well, whatever we do,” Cameron snapped, “can we do it sometime _today_?”  
          “Cameron, you can lift him, right?”  
          “Gravity’s not on our side if we’re standing, is it?”  
          “No, but it’s on Maxie’s.”  
          The writer accepted that answer and stood up. He turned to Max, still on the bed, and bent down toward him. As he wrapped his arms under his legs, the Aussie wrapped his own around his shoulders. Still nervous, he clung to him as he lifted him up this way.  
          “I can’t hold him like this on my own,” Cameron admitted, struggling a bit. In response, Ash stepped forward, and Max felt his hands holding up his thighs. His weight more evenly distributed, he was now able to lighten his hold on Cameron. He looked the writer in the eyes, unable to mask his concerned expression.  
          “She’ll be apples, Max,” he told him over the sound of Ash squeezing out more lubricant.  
          “After you, Fenn.”  
          Cameron managed to reach down, guiding himself to where he needed to go. Then, he lowered the Aussie a bit, arching his hips forward as he did. The writer’s entrance made him tense again; he held him a bit tighter. After a few seconds, he got used to it and was able to let go again. A few thrusts to test the waters. Each one brought Max ever closer to the edge, as much as he wanted to keep himself away from it.  
          “ _Aah_ , C-Cameron . . .”  
          The writer looked over Max’s shoulder at Ash with a reluctant expression. “Be _care_ ful,” he warned. “He’s already about to come.”  
          Max felt Ash press closer to him, chest against his back. _There’s no way he’ll be able to get it in._ But as he thought that, he felt him trying anyway. A few seconds later, to his surprise, he felt something more pressing into him. It was only the head, but that alone made Max let out low half-shouts. His fingers dug into Cameron’s back.  
          “Ah . . . _Aah_ . . . ! _Aaah_!”  
          Ash grunted as he forced himself deeper inside. Somehow, he was managing to fit, but not without making the Aussie feel like his insides were being torn apart. The further he went, the louder and more hysterical Max became. Cameron shuddered from the feeling on his end: Ash’s throbbing arousal rubbing so hard against his own. Even Ash, rarely moved beyond his composure, was beginning to take uneven breaths. Once he was comfortable inside, he glanced at Cameron.  
          “Start moving.”  
          “ _Me_?”  
          “Both of us.”  
          Next thing Max knew, both men were trying to move inside him. As Ash moved shallower, Cameron moved deeper, and vice versa. The sensation was far too intense for him; he held Cameron tighter than ever. He wasn’t even sure what the noises he was making _were_ anymore. Screams? Cries? Moans? Of pleasure? Agony? As much as it hurt, he couldn’t deny how amazing it felt.  
          “Ash,” he cried. “ _Aah_ , Cameron!” Though he knew he’d regret it, he couldn’t stop himself from shouting, “Harder!” They obeyed. The feeling of both of them slamming in and out of him, back and forth, was dragging him up to cloud nine. “O-oh, God. Oh, fuck—I’m—I’m gonna— _aah_! _Aah_ , harder!”  
          “Ashton,” Cameron choked. “Move with me.”  
          “‘With’?” the auditor gasped back.  
          “Both of us, pounding in at the same time.”  
          Max felt Ash nodding on his shoulder. Then, the auditor was moving closer to kiss him. He turned his head, allowing him to make out with him. Cameron moved in as well, licking the free side of his face. In his haze, it was hard to tell which man his tongue entwined with. He knew it switched, but from which to which, he was unsure. When both of them moved out a bit, he felt it. The two of them pulled back from his face; for a split-second, he felt lonely.  
          “Ready?” Cameron asked.  
          “Yeah,” Ash answered.  
          “All right. One, two, three—”  
          All at once, they both plowed into Max with full force. The Aussie, feeling a great force on his prostate, screamed. As he did so, he finished violently. The way his muscles contracted, tightening even more around both arousals inside him, made Cameron and Ash lurch. A small, uncharacteristic cry escaped the writer’s lips as he came undone as well, leaving Ash to finish last. It didn’t take too long for him to allow himself to join them, though.  
          Max was only half conscious when he felt Cameron lay him down on the bed. On his right, Ash laid beside him, Cameron on his left. All three of them were panting, Max most of all, being the only one still shuddering. Both men turned to face him, but he didn’t know which one to look at, himself, so he looked up at the ceiling instead.  
          “That was . . .” Cameron started, but seemed unable to put it into words. “Wow,” he settled on. Ash hummed in agreement. Before Max blacked out, he felt both of them lean in and kiss him on either cheek. Then, he was out like a light.


	12. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 11th, 2018.

By the time Max woke up, it was dark outside. His whole body felt sore; he felt like he never wanted to move again. What he’d done with Ash and Cameron flooded back to him little by little. It seemed more like a fever dream than something that’d happened only a few hours ago. Two years ago, he’d never have imagined himself having sex with one man, never mind two at once.  
           _Where did I go wrong in my life to end up here? Or was it somewhere I went_ right _?_  
          Someone was still lying to his left, but the bed felt empty to his right. So, he looked that way; indeed, that side of the bed was empty. On the pillow sat his own cellphone, though. Confused, he reached his tired arm out and picked it up. When he turned it on, he saw a text from Ash on its notification wall.  
          “Had a business meeting. Let’s meet sometime tomorrow. Happy New Year.”  
          Max felt his heart sink. He checked the date and time: December 31 st, 2018. 8 PM. Only four hours away from the anniversary of Stacey breaking up with him. Last year, he’d spent New Year’s Eve secluded away on his own, avoiding Cameron at all costs. Would there be an escape this year? If he stayed around him, he couldn’t shake the fear that the writer would break up with him during the countdown, too. It seemed like his kind of luck; the thought terrified him.  
          The underlying fear that bothered him was the nature of the goodbye.  
           _Did Cameron kill him while I slept? Where would he have put the body, though? How would he get it out?_  
          “He left about two hours ago,” Cameron said. Max turned over to look at him.  
          “You’re sure you didn’t murder him?”  
          The writer got a small laugh out of the accusation. “No, he’s still alive. If you can call someone ranting about financial bullshit ‘alive’, that is.”  
          This surprised and perplexed Max. Cameron had seemed so hell-bent on killing Ash. Once he had his mind set on something, there was little anyone or anything could do to change his mind. So why had he let Ash leave unscathed? All things considered, the Aussie thought he’d passed up his best opportunity to get away with murder. Tempted as he was to inquire, though, he decided to change the subject instead.  
          “Are you going anywhere tonight?” he asked, unsure of any other way to tell him to fuck off until 2019.  
          “Actually, I was thinking you and I could go out and paint the town red.”  
           _Shit._ “Um, I don’t know. I’m worn out.”  
          “You’ve been sleeping for seven hours. I’m bored.”  
          “Go enjoy yourself, then.”  
          “No, fuck that.” Cameron shot him a mild glare. “You left me on my own last New Year’s. I’m not letting you do it again.”  
          Max looked away. “Why does it matter? It’s not like New Year’s doesn’t happen every year. What’s so special about it?”  
          “Well, you don’t seem to like it, for one. It seems like the only day of the year you despise. I want to find out why.”  
          “Oh, and you don’t hate any days?”  
          “Not really.” Cameron turned over onto his front, head on his forearms. “Except for June 13 th, I guess.”  
          Max puzzled over that for a moment. When nothing rung a bell, he finally glanced over at him. “What’s June 13th?”  
          “The only doomsday of the year where I start to make myself a little nervous,” the writer answered. “I’m never quite sure if I’ll come out of it alive.”  
          It took the Aussie a few seconds to realize what he meant.  
           _That’s his birthday. He likes to kill people on their birthday if it falls on a doomsday. I reckon that explains why he always seems less stable in June . . ._  
          “But you, you don’t seem to mind October 10 th. I mean, you seem nervous every doomsday, and a little more on your own, but . . .” He shrugged.  
          “You don’t hate it. Ah, let me guess. December 31st was Stacey’s birthday?”  
          Max’s heart hurt hearing Cameron say her name, but even more hearing him say it in past-tense. “No,” he answered.  
          “January 1st?”  
          “No.”  
          “When was it, then?”  
          “January 24th.”  
          Cameron froze for a beat. Then, he groaned and lowered his face into the pillow. “Fuuuck.”  
           _I take it January 24 th is a doomsday, then. He killed her in April, though._ The Aussie smirked a little. _At least he regrets it, if only because he got the dates wrong._  
          “I swear to God, before I kill Ash, I’m making sure I know what day he was born on,” the writer grumbled into the pillowcase. “Because if I kill one more person before their own doomsday, I’ll fucking cark it.”  
          Something Max had noticed over time was how Cameron would occasionally use Australian slang to him. He wasn’t sure where he’d learned “cark it” from (as far as he could recall, he’d never said it to him), but it was a cute gesture nevertheless.  
           _I mean, I suppose it’s British, too. But he’s American, so why else would he know it? Then again, sometimes his voice does sound a little British . . ._  
          The writer raised his head. Were this a cartoon, Max might’ve expected to see a lightbulb above his head. “Hmm.”  
          “What is it?”  
          He took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but then froze. Then, he closed his mouth and shook his head. “Nothing. Anyway, are you coming with me or not? I want to show you more of Zürich.”  
          “You aren’t going to take me to an Australian restaurant too, are you?”  
          “I might’ve if I’d known even _one_ existed.”  
          Max sat up as Cameron stood. “I don’t know, Cameron . . . I still think I’d prefer to be on my own tonight.”  
          “C’mon, Max. Live a little.” Cameron smiled at him with his trademark handsome smile.  
           _Fuckin’ hell. How could I say no to that face?_  
          “Get dressed.”  
          “In what?”  
          “Anything you want.” Cameron pulled out some casual clothes for himself. His words struck Max as strange; normally, he dictated what he’d wear.  
          “We’re not going anywhere formal?”  
          “Do you want to?”  
          Max got up as well. “Definitely not.”  
          Leading up to the Quaibrücke, Bürkliplatz was crowded with people. There were food stands all around the market area, with people playing music together. The happy, cheerful atmosphere only made Max all the more uncomfortable, though. It reminded him too much of the party that Stacey had invited him to.  
           _It’s stupid to think Cameron would do the same thing . . . but if he does break up with me, will he do it in the crowd like she did?_  
          “You look awkward,” Cameron observed. “You’ve been so outgoing these past few days. What changed?”  
          “I pulled myself back from insanity,” Max answered.  
          Cameron nodded. As he watched the crowd, he too fell silent. Max looked up at him. In doing that, he noticed something a bit peculiar.  
          “Cameron?”  
          The writer jolted a bit and quickly turned to look at him, too. “What?”  
          “Are you all right? You seem . . .” He searched for a word to describe it. “Nervous.”  
          “Nervous?” Cameron asked with a small, amused scoff. The moment his eyes slipped away from Max’s, though, his smirk turned troubled. Then, he got a better grip on his façade. “No, you must be projecting. I’m fine.”  
          But Max wasn’t convinced. _Is he uncomfortable? If so, is it because he wants to break up?_ Now he felt nervous, too.  
          “Let’s kill some time,” the writer recommended. Max nodded. They started heading toward a restaurant. At the front of it, there was a giant Christmas display, with lights, cardboard trees, and a cardboard house. But before they could reach it, Cameron stopped in his tracks. Then, he brought his palm to his face.  
          “Shit. This is a formal restaurant.” The groan he made afterward made it sound like he was on the verge of a panic attack. “Come on, let’s go somewhere else.”  
          “Where?”  
          “ _Ummmmmmm_.” Cameron mussed up his bangs, then slicked them up again.  
           _Is he okay? I’ve never seen him so flustered._  
          “What do you like to eat?” It was a quiet, innocent question that, over the sounds around them, Max almost didn’t hear.  
          “What?”  
          “Dottie scolded me for not knowing what you like to eat.”  
          Max made an awkward laugh. “I . . . I don’t know, Cameron. I’m not a finicky eater. I’ll eat whatever I’m given.”  
          “But what do you _like_?”  
          It was Max’s turn to be flustered. “I, uh . . .” He shrugged.  
          “There’s no wrong answer, Max.”  
          “F”—Max cut himself off. He raised his shoulders, cringing in fear of a bad reaction. “F-fast food . . . ? I mean . . . I used to like Macca’s, but . . .”  
          Cameron whipped out his cellphone. As he tapped on it, completely engrossed, Max stood there, silent and confused.  
          “Um . . . Cameron?”  
          The writer held out a hand, one finger up. “Shush. Give me a second.”  
          Max obeyed, though he felt a little bitter. _What the hell’s he doing? What’s so bloody important?_  
          Cameron’s face soured with a twinge of what could’ve been disgust. “You don’t mind walking past Outback Lodge again, do you?”  
          “You know, I’d, uh . . . rather not, to be honest.”  
          The writer tapped a bit more on his phone. “Yeah,” he said, though whether he was talking to him or the phone was unknown to Max. “Yeah, all right.” Finally, he put it away. “Let’s go.” Then, he started walking back toward the hotel.  
          “Where are we going now?” Max asked, following behind him like a lost puppy.  
          “Back past Park Hyatt,” was the only answer Cameron gave.  
          He followed him as they walked in silence. About fifteen minutes later, walking down a main road, Max saw them: the iconic yellow arches, painted on the inside of a window.  
          “Far out,” he gasped. “Cameron, what the hell?”  
          “There was one over the bridge, but it was beside Outback.”  
          “You’re actually okay with going inside?”  
          “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a fast food restaurant, not a brothel.”  
          Together, they entered. The walls were slick black, and there was a second floor. With artwork on the walls, it felt uncharacteristically chic. This restaurant looked a lot better than the ones in the States, he could admit that much. It wasn’t too crowded inside, which he found surprising. Still there was a line, though, so they joined it.  
           _This is so surreal. It’s almost like I’m living a normal life again. It might seem more that way if I could forget I’m standing in a Macca’s with a serial killer._  
          With that though, he glanced up at Cameron. Though he already knew what he was ordering for himself, the writer gazed at the menu above the cash registers like it was hieroglyphics.  
          “You’ve eaten here before, right?”  
          “No.”  
          “Never?”  
          “Mm-mm.”  
          Max was taken aback. “Fair dinkum? Everybody’s eaten Macca’s at least once.”  
          Cameron shook his head. “This is new to me.”  
          For a second, the Aussie felt sympathetic. Then, he said, “Well, know you know how I feel about Zürich in general.”  
          It was their turn to order. As they stepped closer, the man behind the counter greeted them.  
          “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?”  
          Max stumbled. “Um . . . Sorry. English?”  
          “No problem. How can I help you?”  
          “I’d like a double cheeseburger with medium fries, please. With a medium coke and one of those apple pocket things.”  
          The cashier nodded. He looked at Cameron. “For you?”  
          “Um, a regular cheeseburger, I guess.”  
          “Fries?”  
          “Sure, why not.”  
          “Medium?”  
          “Small.”  
          “Anything else?”  
          “Uh, just a water bottle and . . . Oh, what the hell. Let’s throw in a small caramel sundae.”  
          “All right. That brings your total up to 27 francs and 30 rappen.”  
          Cameron paid. A few minutes later, they received their food and took it upstairs. Once there, Max realized why it seemed so empty.  
          “Oh. That’s where everyone went,” he muttered as his eyes scanned the crowd of people sitting at various tables.  
          “There’s a table in that corner over there,” Cameron pointed out.  
          Max nodded, so they headed over to it and sat down. “Man, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to eat all this,” he said as he skimmed his eyes over his tray. “I didn’t think ‘medium’ would be so . . . big.”  
          “That might explain why nothing was listed as ‘large’.”  
          “Does it mean the same thing here?” Max asked with a laugh, though he was half serious.  
          “Do you want to switch? Besides drinks and desserts, we did get the same thing, after all.”  
          “Is that why you got small?”  
          Cameron flashed a small grin. “Yep.”  
          Max returned a playful smirk. “Fine, let’s swap.”  
          After they switched, Max started to eat the cheeseburger and fries. All of a sudden, he felt like Cameron was being too quiet. When he looked at him, he looked away, having been staring at him. Max looked down at his tray. Things were awkward.  
          “Max?”  
          The Aussie looked up a bit too fast. “Yeah?”  
          “What do you think about Ash?”  
          He paused, uncertain. “What do you mean?”  
          “How is he?”  
          Max started to blush. “You mean . . . in bed?”  
          “In general.”  
          “I don’t know. He’s . . .” A shrug. “He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. In some sick way, I like that, though.” He picked up his drink and started to suck on the straw.  
          “Do you love him?”  
          Max stopped. For a beat, he did nothing. Then, he took the straw out of his mouth and looked at Cameron. “No,” he answered, tone firm and serious. “He’s a decent root, but no.”  
          “Could you, though?”  
           _Why’s he asking this? Is he trying to make sure I have an alternative? Is this a hint? Am I right that he’s about to leave me?_  
          “No.”  
          “Why not?” There was a genuine curiosity in Cameron’s voice.  
          “I reckon a good part of it has to do with how gentle he is. You should always be afraid of the gentle ones. Once they snap, they make the rough ones seem gentle.”  
          “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”  
          Max shook his head. “Nah. Just trying to sound deep.”  
          “You’re right, though.” Cameron mumbled. “My father was a gentle one.”  
          “And your mother?”  
          The writer fell silent. After a beat, he picked up his own burger. “All in due time, Max.” Then, he took a bite.  
          Awkward and craving to change the subject, Max asked, “How is it?”  
          Cameron chewed with a puzzled expression, then swallowed. “Greasy,” he answered.  
          “Do you like it?”  
          “It’s not awful.”  
           _Reckon that’s the best I’ll get from him._ Max nodded his head and resumed eating. Once they got to their desserts he felt worry clutch at him again. “What time is it?”  
          Rather than point out that he had his own phone, Cameron checked his for him. “9:25.”  
          “What are we going to do for the next two and a half hours?”  
          “We could, uh . . . go watch a movie or something, if any of the theaters are open.”  
          Max waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “I don’t think I’ve got the attention span for that.”  
          “I’m not a big fan of movies, anyway.” Cameron leaned forward. He picked up a spoonful of his sundae, but didn’t eat it yet. “What do guys like us _do_ together?”  
          The Aussie shrugged. Somehow, his apple pie was _still_ too hot to eat. “What do they cook these things with, the flames of Hell?”  
          “Oh, hey. I’ve got an idea.” Cameron scooped up more sundae onto the spoon, then leaned over. He turned the spoon upside down, dropping the ice cream over the top of the scalding pie. “That’ll either cool it down or melt immediately. Either way.”  
          Max giggled. Next thing he knew, he was laughing, though he tried not to attract too much attention. Cameron laughed a little with him.  
          They spent fifteen minutes finishing their desserts. The next two hours passed with them walking around the city, aimless. Cameron introduced Max to the Pavilion Sculpture, made of black marble. Then, to the fountain in front of Zürich’s central station. Water gushed out from the mouths of the various green statues place atop it. All down Bahnofstrasse, there were dangling rows of beautiful Christmas lights. Whether they were purple, blue, white, or red, Max couldn’t tell. Whatever the case, they took his breath away.  
          Twenty minutes of walking later, they were in Bäckeranlage, a small, grassy park. Contained within was a large tree with stretching limbs. For a while, they sat in the snow around its base together. It was during this time that Max finally felt compelled to ask something that’d been on his mind all night.  
          “Why did you leave Ash alive?”  
          This question confused the writer more than anything. “What do you mean?”  
          “It seems strange to me, is all. That you wouldn’t murder him the instant he was asleep, I mean.”  
          “That would’ve been reckless, wouldn’t it?” Cameron gazed up at the dark sky above them. “But no, you’re right. It was kind of tempting.”  
          “So why did you let him live?”  
          “Well, to be honest, he might be kind of useful to me.”  
          “Useful?” Max raised a brow at him.  
          “Yeah. I mean, when I brought you here, you were a mess. I had no idea how I was going to get you back to normal. Then that asshole came along and fucked you up so bad that you came back full circle.”  
          “So, you’re . . . okay with him, then?”  
          “He’s still a threat, but I plan to nullify that. So, yeah, I guess I am. He doesn’t seem the type to rat us out. I can tell that he and I have a lot in common, anyway.”  
          Max might’ve taken that as comfort, but Cameron’s word choice worried him. “What do you mean, ‘nullify’?”  
          “I plan to do it tonight, but I’m not sure when or where. I want to do it at midnight, but the fireworks aren’t until twenty past, so . . . I’m not sure.”  
          “You aren’t going to kill him, are you?”  
          “Not if he doesn’t make me, no.”  
          Somehow, this only made Max more nervous.  
          It was a little past 11:20 when they finally left Bäckeranlage. A half hour later, they’d returned to the Quaibrücke, which was even more crowded than before. As he and Cameron gazed off toward Lake Zürich, Max checked the time on his phone. 11:50.  
           _Ten minutes until 2019 . . . I’m nervous. What’s going to happen in the next ten minutes?_  
          For what felt like an eternity, neither of them said a word. They only stood there, basking in the ambience, Max in silent panic. The Aussie glanced at his partner in his peripheral a few times, but never full-on. All of the lights made Lake Zürich even more beautiful than before. People passed by, too engrossed in their own celebrations to notice them. Max checked his phone again. 11:55.  
          “Max.”  
          Max raised his head, looking out onto the take rather than at Cameron. “Yeah?”  
          “Could you . . . tell me you love me again?”  
           _What?_ “I thought you didn’t like me saying that.”  
          “You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to.”  
          The Aussie chewed anxiously at his lower lip. “Cameron, I . . .” He took a breath to compose himself. “I love you, Cameron.”  
          “Do you mean it?”  
          A pause. “Yes. Yes, I mean it. I love you. Despite everything, I love you.”  
          For a long beat, Cameron said nothing. That beat carried on for a minute or two. Finally, the writer took a breath of his own and turned to face Max. He didn’t turn to look back, though.  
           _Why’s he looking at me?_  
          “Max . . .”  
           _No. No, I’m not turning. Whatever terrible thing you want to say, you’re going to have to say it to the side of my head._  
          But the writer took hold of his shoulders and forced him to turn and face him. Now they were standing close together, with Max staring up into Cameron’s dark eyes. The Aussie felt his heart pounding in his chest.  
           _What is this? That look on his face, it’s not . . . It’s not the same as Stacey’s when she broke up with me. He doesn’t look guilty. He looks nervous, yeah, but happy at the same time._  
          “Max, I, uh . . .” He glanced off at the lake, then made himself meet Max’s gaze again. “I’m sorry. About . . . a lot of things. I know, with me being who I am, you’ll have trouble believing that. I don’t feel the things I need to feel to be sorry. And the things I’m sorry for, I know I’ll do them again anyway. But . . . I’ve been thinking.” He started to look a little more flustered. “I mean, I’d planned this from the get-go, but I wasn’t sure if I’d go through with it.”  
           _Oh, God, what are you talking about? Are you going to kill me in the middle of the street? Throw me over the side of the bridge into the lake? Break up with me? Somehow, the last one sounds like it’d lead to both, anyway. Don’t tell me you’re sorry!_  
          “And, to be honest, I’m still not sure how this happened. The first time I saw your face, I didn’t know either, but now I’m even more baffled. I’ve known a lot of people—dated a decent amount, too. But it’s never been like this. I always knew you were different, but . . .” He took another breath. “I’m saying ‘but’ too much. This is why I stopped writing.”  
          Max chuckled, but quickly stopped himself. He was terrified, but something felt . . . off.  
           _It doesn’t sound like he’s about to break up with me. Actually, it . . ._ His heart started beating faster. _What’s he trying to tell me?_  
          People on the street started to count down. Cameron perked up at the sound. Then, he looked back down at Max and flashed him a nervous smile.  
          “Listen, Max . . . This is the first and last time I’m ever going to do something as stupid as this.” Then, he started to lower. Max’s eyes followed him, not realizing until his head moved past his chest that he was sinking down onto one knee. They widened at the sight.  
           _What?_ What _? Is this—Is this_ happening _? What’s he doing?_  
          Cameron looked up at him and took a shaky breath. “Maxime Aleshire,” he said, “I’ve never felt anything for anyone like I feel for you. You . . . You’re important to me. You’re more important than anyone. I can’t bear to imagine a life where I didn’t meet you, because . . .” With shaky hands, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small box. Holding it out, he opened it. Inside was a handsome diamond ring. He looked up.  
          “I love you, Max. So . . . let’s get married.”  
          Max stared at the ring, eyes even wider than before, mouth hanging open somewhat. He was speechless from a mix of emotions.  
           _Oh, my God. Oh my God. Omigod omigod omigod._  
          Tears were starting to find their way to his startled gray eyes. He looked up at Cameron’s face as the crowd around them continued to count, louder and louder. The writer was smiling, but there was a touch of nervousness and fear in his own eyes of dark caramel.  
           _What do I do? He’s proposing to me. He just proposed!_  
          The writer gulped. “Uh, Max . . . Are you . . . still with me, here?”  
          Max’s mouth broke out into its own strained smile. With a small laugh, he nodded his head. Then, he paused. Without warning, he lunged down and held Cameron tight. He started to laugh and cry at the same time as he nodded into his shoulder and squeezed him.  
          “Yes,” he answered. “Yes, let’s!”  
          Right then, the crowd exploded into cheer for the New Year. To Max and Cameron, it almost felt like they were applauding them.  
          “Happy New Year!” the Aussie exclaimed. Then, he pulled Cameron close and kissed him. The writer kissed him back as they held each other. At that moment, Max had never been happier. Nothing could ever top this: the most perfect moment of his life.


	13. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 12th, 2018.

The fireworks at twenty minutes past midnight would remain ingrained in Max’s mind for the rest of his life. Their exuberance, saturation and glow perfectly captured the elation in his heart. Holding Cameron close as he watched them, the moment couldn’t have been any more glorious. For the first time, he felt like he knew where he belonged.  
          Which was why, when they woke up after sunrise and Cameron suggested they break the news to his grandparents, the idea troubled him.  
          “Cameron, are you sure they’ll . . . you know, _agree_ with this?” he asked as he watched him wash his face in the bathroom. He fiddled with the pendant from Ash rather than his sleeve. Though he’d debated taking it off, he decided not to; its presence brought him comfort in some way.  
          “It doesn’t matter much to me whether they do or don’t,” Cameron replied as he slicked back his hair in the mirror. Max was sitting on the edge of the bathtub behind him, but he didn’t take his eyes off his own reflection. “I’m not even sure why I want to tell them at all.” He slathered some shaving cream onto his cheeks and jawline. “To brag, I guess. Are you going to shave, too?”  
          Max shrugged. “I was thinking I’d try a beard.”  
          “You’re kidding, right?”  
          The Aussie smirked a bit. “You don’t think it’d suit me?”  
          “Not at all.”  
          With a chuckle, he stood up and joined him at the sink. “Fine. I’ll cut the five o’clock shadow.” He leaned over and turned on the faucet, then scrubbed his face with his hands.  
          “Are you nervous?” Cameron asked.  
          “Why would I be?” Upon glancing up and seeing the writer with a white foam beard, he almost lost it. “You look like an idiot.”  
          “Ho, ho, ho.”  
          Max laughed and sprayed out some foam for himself. Right as he was about to put it on his face, he stopped. A sudden wave of anxiety came over him. He felt sick.  
           _What am I doing? He’s killed people. Bashed a man’s head in, slit another’s throat. Stabbed a woman to death. Worse things that I don’t even know about, I reckon. All innocent; not a single one deserving it. Yet, here I am about to shave with him, laughing, enjoying myself, and . . ._  
          He looked down at his left hand, at the ring on his third finger. Of the two of them, he felt like the bigger monster. His crime was worse than anything Cameron had ever done. Even Dottie and Chandler would push Cameron away if they knew his deeds. But him? No, he’d marry him for it. Despite all the bloodshed, he’d marry him.  
          “Max? Are you all right?”  
          The Aussie blinked. All of a sudden, he felt compelled to say: “It feels like I’ve waded so deep in a pool of blood that if I stopped now, going back would be as hard as to carry on.”  
          Cameron grinned at him in the mirror. “You lack the season of all natures.”  
          “What?”  
          “Nothing.” The writer raised his razor and ran it down the right side of his face, wiping away both cream and light stubble.  
          Only fifteen or so minutes later, they were in a taxi again. It wasn’t until they were halfway to the old couple’s home that Max was finally able to admit:  
          “All right. I’m terrified.”  
          “Don’t be,” Cameron assured, “this shouldn’t surprise them. I’ve had plenty of partners, but I’ve never introduced them to any before.”  
          “When you say ‘plenty’, how many are we talking?”  
          “Oh, fuck. Umm . . . Geez. I don’t know. I tried to keep count at first, I did, but . . . By the time I was in college, good luck. The exact number is anyone’s guess.”  
          Max gazed out through his window. “How long before me was your last?”  
          “About two years, actually.”  
          This was both a surprise and a slight relief. “Who was it?”  
          Cameron didn’t answer at first. After a long pause, he finally said, “August.”  
          Max tensed. This revelation flipped his mind upside down. He’d known they were dormmates, but _lovers_?  
          As if sensing his new fiancé’s alienation, Cameron started to explain himself. “I mean, _technically_ it was Julian. But afterward, August needed some emotional support. _I_ needed some emotional support. Whatever we were, it was short-lived. I’m pretty sure he was in love with me, though.”  
          “Even after that, you could still . . . do what you did to him?”  
          Cameron shrugged. “I warned him, didn’t I? I told him I’d do it. Not my fault he kept talking.”  
          Max sighed. _If he could kill August so brutally, then what about me? If I started prying into his past for information on this Julian guy, would he kill me the same way? Would I get more or less of a warning?_  
          “Did you love him?” he asked.  
          Cameron answered fast: “No.”  
          “Did you love Julian?”  
          This time, though, he didn’t answer at all.  
          As they turned down onto the street his grandparents lived on, Cameron said, “Keep your ring hidden from them. I’ll tell you when to show it.”  
          “Okay.” Max nodded and shoved his left hand into his hoodie’s pocket.  
          Together, they got out of the taxi. It was in doing so that Max noticed, down the way they’d come, another taxi. This cab was only just in eyeshot.  
          “Um, Cameron . . .”  
          But the writer was always jogging toward the front door. “Come on!” he urged.  
          Max glanced back toward the taxi, catching sight of it as it carried on out of sight. _It’s only a coincidence_ , he thought, trying to convince himself. _Why do I have trouble believing that?_  
          “Max!”  
          The Aussie turned to look at Cameron. “Coming!” Then, he rushed over to his side. It was difficult to dismiss the mystery cab—had it been following them?  
           _Forget it._ He only wished it was as easy as his rationality wanted it to be.  
          Again, it was Dottie who welcomed them inside. Max appreciated this; the predictable pattern of it soothed him. Before he knew it, they were in the same places as before; Chandler on the chair, Dottie on the loveseat, him and Cameron on the couch.  
          “Dottie, Chandler, we’ve got some news,” Cameron gushed. It was now around ten in the morning. As he sat there, Max kept his left hand hidden like he’d been told to. Since he couldn’t believe this new development either, he had no clue how they would take it. Happy as he tried to appear, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they wouldn’t be supportive.  
          “What is it?” inquired Dottie. Cameron glanced at Chandler, but the old man didn’t ask anything.  
          “I don’t know what you’re staring at me for,” he said. “I’m waiting for an answer.”  
          The writer gave a wry smirk and nudged Max with his elbow. As the Aussie finally revealed his hand—his engagement ring in turn—Cameron exclaimed, “We’re fiancés!”  
          For a long beat, the old couple stared at the ring in mute apprehension. Then, finally, Dottie clapped. “Congratulations!” When she said this, Chandler raised his eyebrows and nodded.  
          Their forced and lack of enthusiasm didn’t seem to register with Cameron; if it did, he ignored it. “I proposed last night. Max said yes right at midnight.”  
          “How romantic,” Dottie crooned. She elbowed Chandler and hissed at him, “Honey, don’t just sit there. They’re getting married.”  
          “Not in Switzerland, they’re not,” the old man replied.  
          “Chandler!”  
          This exchange finally wiped the smile from Cameron’s face. “What do you mean? That’s part of the reason I came here.”  
          Dottie sighed. “Oh, dear . . . You didn’t know?”  
          “Didn’t know what?”  
          Chandler answered, “Gay marriage is still illegal in this country, son.”  
          Cameron’s face went blank. “You’re kidding.”  
          “I’m afraid not.” Dottie.  
          “Shit. Switzerland dropped the ball there, didn’t it?”  
          The oldies gave small, awkward chuckles, but didn’t answer. Max felt uncertain.  
           _I was right, they don’t seem supportive of this. We should change the subject._  
          But before he could, Dottie proposed, “You could always get married in America.”  
          Cameron scowled a bit. “That’s a bit boring, isn’t it?”  
          “I don’t think so.”  
          “I do. I’d much prefer to get married overseas.”  
          “Max,” Chandler started, “what do you think?”  
          The Aussie fidgeted a bit. “Um . . . I’m happy with anything Cameron’s happy with.”  
          “Are you?”  
          “I’m sure he is,” Cameron interjected. Judging by his tone, he didn’t appreciate the question. “Aren’t you, Max?”  
          “Yes.”  
          The writer smirked at him, then at Chandler. “See?”  
          Still the old man didn’t seem convinced, but he shrugged.  
          Cameron huffed. “Whatever. I’ll figure out something. Sucks that we can’t marry here, though; I like Zürich.”  
          “You could always marry in America and honeymoon somewhere else.”  
          “I figured we’d skip the post-marriage flight and kill two birds with one stone by marrying where we honeymoon.”  
          “I like that idea,” Max affirmed.  
          “The honeymoon can start faster that way.” He flashed him a seductive grin. Max returned a stifled giggle.  
           _I can’t believe he said that in front of his grandparents. He doesn’t have any shame, does he?_  
          “What will you two do after?” Dottie asked.  
          Cameron shrugged. “Return to Pittsburgh, I guess. Max and I already live together, so I don’t think this’ll change much.”  
          “I mean, do you plan on making a family together?”  
          This question confused both of them. “What?” They said, almost in unison.  
          “You know, raise a child together? Adopt?”  
          Neither spoke for a long moment. Max realized that adoption had never occurred to him. He never thought he’d marry Cameron, let alone get far enough to consider starting a family with him. As he ran over this in his head, petrified, he watched as Cameron slowly turned to look at him. His dark eyes were wide in astonishment and uncertainty. All in all, he looked baffled.  
          “Max?”  
          Max blinked. _Don’t ask me. I don’t have a clue._ He thought about it. _Would that be wise? I’m kind of afraid he’d murder it . . ._ So, he gave a meek shrug. As slow as before, the writer turned back to Dottie.  
          “Ah . . . Nah. No, I . . . I don’t think so. We’re not big fans of ankle-biters.”  
           _There he goes with the Strine again._  
          “That’s a shame,” Dottie remarked with a solemn laugh. “I’d so wanted a great-grandchild.”  
          Now, Max felt a little bad. But Cameron didn’t show any emotion for her comment, nor did he even acknowledge it.  
          “Oh, Max,” he said. “Our flight’s tomorrow.”  
          The Aussie perked up. “What flight?”  
          “Back to Pittsburgh. Should I cancel it? We could stay in Zürich another week.”  
          “Um . . . No. Let’s go back.”  
          “You sure?” Cameron shrugged. “If you say so.”  
          “Do _you_ want to stay another week?” _Oh, shit. I’ve set Cameron up so he’s_ got _to say yes to appease his grandparents._  
          “No.”  
           _All right, uh, never mind?_  
          The writer clasped his hands and looked at his grandparents. “Have you two already eaten breakfast?”  
          “We were about to,” Dottie answered. “Would you like to join us?”  
          Cameron turned and considered Max, who shrugged again. Then, he looked at the old couple again. “Yeah, sure.”  
          Dottie and Chandler’s idea of breakfast was light, but that was nothing new to Max. Back when he lived in a Boston apartment on his own, breakfast was something he’d often skipped. If not, then it was typically only some potato chips or something. When his grandmother brought out a case of muffins, Cameron arched his head up in curiosity.  
          “What are those?”  
          “Carrot muffins.”  
          An uncharacteristic gasp of awe. “Fuck yes, carrot muffins! I forgot those existed!”  
          “Language.”  
          “Sorry.” He glanced at Max. “Carrot muffins make me excited.”  
          The Aussie, amused, raised a brow. _Well, now I can cross_ that _off the list of things I’ve never seen: Cameron, excited for something other than serial murder. But . . . for_ carrot muffins _? Really? Of all things? He’s got odd tastes, hasn’t he?_  
          “Do you want one?” Dottie asked.  
          “No, I hate them. Are you kidding?”  
          Dottie smirked, rolled her eyes, and brought him a muffin on a plate. “You, too, Max?”  
          The Aussie held up a hand. “No thanks. I’m not a big fan of carrots.”  
          Cameron looked at him. With a poker face, he deadpanned, “You’re dead to me.”  
          Max stared at him. _That’s a joke, right? I should laugh._ But he didn’t, not until Cameron smirked at him as a sign of peace. Finally, he thought about it:  
           _This development shouldn’t surprise me that much. I mean, the only character from any of his novels that I actually know anything about is a fuckin’ huge pink rabbit. He must’ve made it because he likes carrots?_ That sounded like a weird basis to make a character on, but Max had had weirder during his time as a digital artist. _I wonder why Cameron’s never got a bunny or something. Maybe he has, but he killed it. People like him have a tendency to mutilate small animals before moving on to humans, don’t they?_  
          While Dottie and Cameron had muffins, Chandler and Max stuck with toast. Dottie chuckled in reminiscence as she watched Cameron split his muffin in half.  
          “I remember how you used to come here for your birthday when you were little. We’d always take you out to get a carrot cake.”  
          Max bit into his toast and watched the writer. There wasn’t much of a reaction to this memory, as if he couldn’t recall it. To Max, though, the thought was still amusing.  
           _I wonder what he looked like when he was a kid. Funny to think of him toddling around asking for carrot cake . . ._  
          “I bet you were a cute kid,” Max mumbled.  
          “He’s never shown you any photographs?” Dottie sat up. “I’ve got some.”  
          “No,” warned Cameron. “Nuh-uh. We’re not doing the childhood picture thing. I might be about to marry him, but that shit can wait.” Then, he got up, bringing his muffin to the microwave.  
          “Oh, Cameron, you shouldn’t melt the butter in the microwave. It’s unhealthy.”  
          “Shut up, grandma.” He put the muffin inside and slammed the door. After a few beeps, the microwave started to hum; he leaned against the counter beside it, gazing at the table. Max smiled at him; he returned the gesture.  
           _That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him call one of them by something other than their given name. And of course it was in telling her to shut up. I love this bastard._  
          “Have you done any planning for the wedding in advance?” Chandler inquired.  
          Cameron blinked. “Well, I did,” he admitted. “But not being able to do it in Switzerland threw a real monkey wrench. Whatever the case, I’d like to do it on Valentine’s Day.”  
          “Valentine’s Day?” His grandfather scoffed. “Good luck planning a wedding that fast _and_ finding an available venue anywhere.”  
          “It’ll work out.” The microwave emitted a long beep, so Cameron turned and pulled out his muffin. Finally, he returned to the table and started to eat.  
          “Don’t get your hopes up for that,” warned the old man.  
          “Well, what would _you_ recommend, then?” Cameron asked around the food in his mouth.  
          “To be honest? Your birthday, at the earliest.”  
          The writer stopped chewing.  
          “His birthday?” Max asked. “But . . . that’s six months away.”  
          “Most people stay engaged for well over a year. In my opinion, you guys are rushing it. If either of you changes your mind, it’s easier to get out of an engagement than a marriage. It might take a few months for you to have second thoughts.”  
          Cameron swallowed hard. “There won’t be second thoughts.”  
          “Son, no offense, but you’ve got a track record of loving and leaving as many people as you can.”  
          Dottie nudged him. “Chandler!”  
          “It’s different with Max,” the writer insisted.  
          “I’d hope so, since you’ve introduced him to us, but still.”  
          His wife shook her head. “I’m sorry, boys. Chandler, you’re being incredibly rude.”  
          “I’m just saying it how it is, Dottie.”  
          Max noticed the way Cameron and Chandler glared at each other and wanted to phase through the floor. The hostility in the air between them was fierce. He almost worried they might get into a physical altercation of some sort. But, instead, Cameron reached into his pocket and checked his phone.  
          “It’s almost eleven,” he observed. “Thanks for breakfast, Dottie, but Max and I should head back to the hotel and start packing.”  
          “So soon? Oh, I do hope it’s not because of anything my husband said.”  
          “I’m going outside to call a cab.” With that, Cameron got up. He took the top half of his muffin with him as he headed out past the living room.  
           _Even when annoyed, he won’t leave that carrot muffin behind . . . That’s kind of cute._  
          “Sorry, Max.” Chandler’s voice got his attention. “What’s that short for, anyway? Maximilian?”  
          The Aussie blinked. “Um, no. It’s, uh . . . short for Maxime.”  
          “Maxine?”  
          Dottie sighed. “No, honey. Max _ime_. It’s French.”  
          “Do you have any French relatives, son?”  
          “No, not that I know of.”  
          “Any chance of us meeting your family?”  
          Max felt himself start to sweat. He hadn’t seen or heard from his parents since Cameron stole him away from Boston. They thought he was missing, he figured. “I don’t think so.”  
          “Why not?”  
          “They’re, uh . . . estranged.” It hurt to say; his father could rot in hell for all he cared, but he missed his mother. During a beat of silence, he considered his next move.  
           _I wonder . . . Should I ask?_  
          Deciding he may as well, he inquired: “Do you know much about Cameron’s previous partners?”  
          Chandler shrugged. “A little bit. Never met any of them, though.”  
          Max gulped. He glanced toward the living room; Cameron hadn’t returned yet. “What do you know about Julian?”  
          “Julian?” Dottie spoke this time. “Julian Wynn? Oh, he told us a lot about him.” She let out a somber chuckle. “Thought he’d introduce him to us, but then . . .”  
          “Then?”  
          Chandler: “He committed suicide. Jumped from his dorm window, I gathered.”  
          Max’s heart sunk a bit. _That explains why August said he watched him fall . . ._  
          “Cameron was gutted,” Dottie lamented. “I’m glad he finally moved on, but it’s so tragic. That poor boy.”  
          “Why’d he do it?”  
          Both of them shrugged. Chandler said: “Cameron never told us why. In fact, if I remember correctly, he said he didn’t know, either.”  
           _I have a feeling he does. August did, too._  
          He wanted to mention how Cameron thought he looked like Julian, but decided against it. Dottie was happy he was moving on, but saying that might make it seem like he wasn’t. Was he?  
           _Or was August right? Am I only a replacement?_  
          Cameron returned. “Half an hour for a bloody taxi,” he complained. “This is ridiculous.” Nobody said anything. “What? You all seem so quiet all of a sudden. What’d I miss?”  
          “Nothing,” Max said. “They asked me about my parents, that’s all.”  
          By 11:30, they were in another taxi, heading back. Cameron was engrossed in his cellphone for the first minute or two, so Max gazed through the window as usual. It was hard to believe that this might be the last time he’d get to pass through Zürich and see the lake.  
          “Sorry about that, Max.”  
          The Aussie cocked his head a bit, but didn’t look away from outside. “About what?”  
          “About Chandler. Old bastard’s never liked me.”  
          “Why?”  
          “Like father like son, I guess. He thinks I’m like my father.”  
          Max leaned his head against his hand. “Are you?”  
          No answer. Max didn’t mind; he only continued to gaze out at the city. _Zürich’s so pretty. I almost feel bad about leaving it. If it weren’t for Ash, I wonder if we’d live here . . ._ As he thought about the auditor, he fondled the pendant through his hoodie. _Didn’t he say he wanted to meet me sometime today?_  
          “Max?”  
          “Hmm?”  
          “Do you want to get married in Brisbane?”  
          This caught Max horrifically off-guard. Unsure of what emotion was most prevalent, he turned his head and finally looked at his fiancé. Cameron was still looking at his phone, scrolling through something.  
          “What?” he asked. “Why, uh . . . Why Brisbane?”  
          “Same-sex marriage became legal in Australia thirteen months ago. You were raised in Brisbane, weren’t you?”  
          “Well . . . Yes, but . . .”  
          “Do you want to go back? I’ve never been to Australia before. It’d be fitting; you’re sentimental, and I like novelty.”  
          The Aussie’s heart fluttered. “I haven’t been there since I was ten . . .”  
          “I’ll take that as a yes.” Cameron smirked a bit. “Let’s fly there instead of Pittsburgh.”  
          “Are you serious?”  
          “Yeah. We need to register for marriage there a month in advance anyway. At least, that’s what the internet says.”  
          “And you’re serious about Valentine’s Day?” This was a bit of an odd point for Max. Happy as he was at the thought of returning to Brisbane, Valentine’s Day had been his and Stacey’s anniversary.  
           _It’s be fitting, though, wouldn’t it? It was only a day or two after her murder that Cameron and I first met in person . . ._  
          “Yeah, of course,” Cameron responded.  
          “I didn’t think you’d like Valentine’s Day.”  
          “It’s a doomsday.”  
          Max had to resist the urge to slam his face against the window. _Of course it is._  
          “Brisbane? I’m about to change flights. Last warning.”  
          The Aussie sighed. _We’ve come this far. I really want to go back to Brisbane, at least for a little while. I’m terrified to, though. What if it’s not the same as I remember it?_  
           _But sharing it with Cameron either way . . ._  
          “Let’s go.”  
          Cameron smiled. “Done.”


	14. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 13th, 2018.

It was a little past noon by the time Max and Cameron stepped back into their suite. Somehow, it’d come to feel like home; Max felt sad at the thought of leaving it behind tomorrow. At least they weren’t heading straight back to Pittsburgh. The one thing he wasn’t looking forward to was ever returning to that big house they shared there again. After August and Val, that house felt cursed. He knew the smell of blood that lingered in it was only psychosomatic, as he could smell it even thinking of it. Either way, he didn’t feel good about ever setting foot in it again.  
          “Cameron?” he asked.  
          The writer was taking his time packing clothes back into his suitcase. “Yeah, Max?”  
          “When we _do_ go back to Pittsburgh . . . I mean, this might be a little crazy, but . . . Could we _not_ live in Glen Hazel?”  
          Those entrancing dark caramel eyes met his. “You want to move?”  
          Max returned a meek nod.  
          “Hm.” He folded a shirt, stuffed it in. “Well, my father’s got plenty of spare houses. He rents most of them out, but some are flat out unoccupied. I’m only afraid he’d rent out the one we live in now.”  
          “Memories?”  
          “No. There might be something incriminating left behind from Halloween. Like the torture chamber in the basement. Or, as Val called it, the ‘kink dungeon’.”  
          Remembering the basement caused August’s death scene to flood back to him. August’s cries, Val’s screams. The cracking sounds, the blood. _The blood . . ._ Max recoiled and gave his head a firm shake. Cameron didn’t acknowledge this.  
           _August loved Cameron too. Look where that got him . . ._ “How’d you meet him?”  
          “Who him?”  
          “August.”  
          Cameron seemed okay with this line of questioning, as he answered in a casual voice. “Well, it must’ve been early 2013 . . . January, I think. The day before the spring semester. Not sure how the hell he managed it, but Carnegie Mellon accepted him as a transfer student. Must’ve had some wicked high grades. He came straight from Denmark. Because my previous dormmate fucked off the previous semester, they plopped him in with me.” He stood up straight and gazed at the white curtain glowing over the window.  
          “I remember how baffled the snow made him. I guess it doesn’t snow often in Denmark. He was wearing some sort of light parka. Baby blue. It made him look almost infantile, which I guess made it funnier when he walked in as my girlfriend was leaving.”  
          Max glanced at him in confusion. “Wait. Girlfriend?”  
          “Ah, well, I mean, she was leaving because I’d pissed her off. She was only in her underwear when she ripped open the door and slammed into him.” A laugh. “She asked him if he was my boyfriend. Thought it’d insult me to imply I was gay. If only she knew. Anyway, August was so fucking stunned. He didn’t run, though, so that earned my respect. I didn’t make the best first impression, but he found it charming how I played it off.”  
          “So you’re . . . bi, then?” he asked, recalling Ash’s question to him a few days prior.  
          “Yep. Did I forget to tell you that?” He stuffed in his dress pants, as well. “Hm. Whoops.”  
          Max looked at the floor. “I can’t believe you could bring yourself to kill him.”  
          “As I said: I _warned_ him.”  
          “All he did was speak his mind. You could’ve denied it. You didn’t have to murder him, especially not so brutally.”  
          The writer huffed. “Look, if it helps you pretend I’m not a monster, I _do_ regret it. If I’d know he was born on a doomsday, I wouldn’t have killed him so soon. But that’s his own fault, too. Over and over I’d ask him, but he’d never answer me. For the longest time I thought he was born in March.”  
          “Why March?”  
          “I don’t know; he didn’t seem like a Gemini. I always felt he acted more like a Pisces.”  
          “Do you believe in astrology?”  
          Cameron shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d call it ‘believing’. I think it’s a good basis to run someone by. It gives everyone a personality type to compare and contrast with. Lets me know their likely weaknesses right off the bat, too.”  
          “Ha. Too right.” A pause. “What was Julian?”  
          Cameron froze. After a long moment, he finally answered: “Libra. October 17th. Doomsday.” His tone was solemn.  
          The fact that Julian was born only a week after him came as no surprise to Max. What did was that Cameron had never told him this. He never seemed any different on October 17th. “When did he . . . ?”  
          “Not on his doomsday.”  
          Max lowered his head again. “August was right, then.”  
          “About what?”  
          “That you’re an ‘avid fan of coincidences’.”  
          Cameron said nothing. When Max started to pack as well, he said, “I’ll do it.”  
          “I don’t mind.”  
          “No, I’ll do it. Do you want to see Ash one last time?”  
          Max felt puzzled for a beat. “Why would I want to do that? I’m engaged to you. I’m done with Ash.”  
          “Odds are you’ll never see him again. I figured you’d want some sort of out to go say goodbye.”  
          “Was it something I said? Did I upset you?”  
          “No. I’m only trying to be considerate. You don’t have to go see him if you don’t want to.”  
          Max thought about it. _He’s got a point. Our meeting was a fluke; we might never see each other again. How cruel would it be to leave without even telling him I’m going? I reckon he loves me. I’d be gutted if I were in his position._ As he thought this, he found himself fiddling with the pendant again; his new nervous tick, he realized. _Never thought I’d say this, but Cameron’s right. I owe Ash a goodbye at least._  
          “Thank you,” he said.  
          “So you’re going, then?”  
          “Yeah. I won’t be more than ten minutes, I promise.”  
          “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”  
          “I _prom_ ise. If he cracks onto me, I’ll leave even sooner.” He turned and headed for the door.  
          “Be careful.”  
          The Aussie stopped. _Right. Ash has forced himself onto me before . . . I might not have a say.  
          No, fuck that. I can handle myself. I won’t let him drug me this time._  
          “I’ll be right back.” Then, he left the suite. As he headed for the elevator, he felt uncertain.  
           _I feel like he wanted me to leave, despite what he says. He’d never let me do something like this otherwise, even if I’d asked. I should’ve stayed and apologized._  
          In the elevator, he pressed the button for Ash’s floor. Only then did it occur to him to check-in via text. Pulling out his phone, he sent him this: “Ash, I’m coming up to your suite. Are you there?”  
          A few seconds later: “Yes. I’ll be waiting.”  
          When the elevator stopped on the floor he wanted, he got off and took a breath. _How will he react? Not well, I reckon._ He took his time in approaching the door to Ash’s suite. Once he reached it, he hesitated before knocking. _How should I tell him, then? Should I be blunt, or . . . ?_  
          The door swung open. Max looked up; Ash gazed down at him. For once, he wasn’t wearing a suit. Today, he was wearing dark jeans and a white dress shirt.  
          “Hi . . .” Max mumbled after he examined the new attire.  
          “Were you planning on standing there without knocking?” the auditor asked.  
          “Sorry. I was trying to figure out what to say.”  
          “Come inside.”  
          “No, Ash, I—”  
          “Please. We can talk over a drink.”  
          Max took a breath and pinched his eyes shut. Then, he forced himself to say it: “Ash, I’m leaving tomorrow.”  
          This shut him up for a moment. “You’re what?”  
          “Cameron and I are leaving Switzerland.”  
          “Why?”  
           _I should be blunt. It lets him know it’s not something he can change._ Max held up his left hand, showing off the ring. “We’re engaged now. We can’t get married here, though; it’s not legal. So, we’re leaving.”  
          Ash stared at the ring. The only visible sign of his inner anguish at this revelation was how wide his sea foam eyes were. “I . . . see,” he said at last. “You’re . . . marrying him.”  
          “Yeah.” The Aussie moved his hair behind his ear. “Um, sorry. This isn’t fair to you, I know, but . . .”  
          “It’s . . .” The auditor let out a small laugh. “It’s fine,” he insisted. “I . . . I should’ve . . . _expected_ this.”  
          “Are you okay?”  
          Ash nodded wildly. Then, he said, “Listen, uh . . . The offer’s still open. To come inside, I mean. I’d like to talk to you, just . . . just one more time.”  
          “Ash, I can’t.”  
          “I’ve still got some chardonnay. I won’t drug you this time, I swear. Let’s share one more drink.”  
          Max shook his head, but then Ash flashed him a puppy face.  
          “Please? You owe me that much.”  
          He stared up at him. Then, relenting, he huffed. “Yeah, all right, fine. I won’t drink, though.”  
          “You’ll change your mind,” Ash teased. Once Max was inside, he closed the door, but didn’t lock it. “Take a seat on the couch.”  
          Max did as he asked. A few seconds later, the auditor joined him with the bottle of chardonnay and two flute glasses. He filled them, then handed one to the Aussie, who attempted to decline it.  
          “No, Ash.”  
          “Come on. Don’t you trust me?”  
          Without saying yes or no, Max gave his answer by glaring first at the bottle, then at Ash. He got the hint and looked a bit playful.  
          “ _Oh_ , Max,” he crooned. “You do me wrong to think that.” He set down the bottle beside his chair rather than in plain sight on the table. Then, he held up his own glass. “If it were drugged, would I do this?” Throwing his head back, he downed it all in one go. Max watched him do this, finally a little relieved.  
           _Well . . . One more drink won’t hurt, right? I mean, it’s not like he’d drug himself, would he?_ Finally, he took the offered glass and gave the oaked wine inside a meek sip. _Blech. Turns out I still don’t like alcohol._  
          Ash leaned back in his chair. “So. Marriage. When?”  
          “Valentine’s Day. At least, that’s the plan.”  
          “Where?”  
          Rather than answer right away, Max hesitated. _I don’t think Cameron would appreciate it if he happened to skip work to come to our wedding . . ._ “I don’t know if I should tell you . . .”  
          “I can assure you my schedule for February is packed and non-negotiable.”  
           _Ah, what the hell?_ “We’re getting married in Brisbane.”  
          Ash, fingers entwined, clenched his hands. “And you’re okay with this?”  
          “I said yes.”  
          “You said yes,” Ash repeated, tone flat. Then, he unclenched his hands. They moved to the arms of the chair, where his fingers dug into the fabric. “You suggested the plan was to marry here. Why? Does Cameron have family in Zürich?”  
          “Grandparents, yeah.” Max shook his chardonnay a bit. “They aren’t completely onboard with our plans, though.”  
          “All this, even though Cameron abuses you.”  
          The Aussie let out a small titter. “No. No, I . . . I’m sorry. It’s my fault you think that. We got into a bit of a blue there, but he’s been gentler since.”  
          “That’s how they get you, Maxie. They abuse you, then they charm you. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ ‘It’ll never happen again.’ ‘I love you so much.’ ‘I need you and you need me.’ Then, once you’re back in the palm of their hand”—he shot up and slammed his fist against his palm with a loud slap—“ _wham_!”  
          Max jumped at the fast movement and loud noise. Ash glanced up at him, eyes and voice both seeming a little dark.  
          “You’ll never know what hit you.”  
          The Aussie gulped. “Listen. I should go. I told Cameron I’d only take a minute or two.”  
          “So soon?” Ash frowned. “Maxie, please. Stay a little longer. At least finish your drink.”  
          Max shook his head, uncertain. “No. I can tell I’ve made you upset.”  
          “I’m fine. The only thing that makes me upset is . . .” His voice cracked a little as he continued: “Is the thought that this could be our last conversation.”  
          Lowering his head, the artist sighed. “I’m sorry, Ash.”  
          “Then stay a while longer. I’m sure Cameron will understand if you take a little longer than you said.” He reached over, took hold of his hand. This made him look him in the eyes as he said, “Stay, Maxie. Let me pretend you’re mine for five minutes more, I beg of you.”  
          The Aussie’s heart felt heavy. _I can’t leave him like that. It’d kill him!_ It was that line of thought that made him resign. “Okay. Five minutes. But . . . please don’t touch me. I’m engaged now. I belong to Cameron.”  
          “Not yet, you don’t.” That said, Ash leaned over and kissed Max on the mouth. As much as he wanted to resist, he wasn’t sure if he should. As if sensing this uncertainty, the auditor pulled back on his own. Looking him straight in the eye again, he told him, “I love you, Max.”  
          Max took this in. “I’m sorry.”  
          “No, no.” Ash, hands shaking a little, moved Max’s hair aside, uncovering his whole face. “No. You love me, too. I know you do.”  
          “I’m sorry.”  
          The man frowned again. Then, he leaned back. He only sat on the chair for a moment before getting up and walking around the couch. Max gazed at the table in front of him, at his glass of chardonnay.  
          “I can tell,” Ash insisted as he paced behind him. “I can tell you share my feelings. The only reason you won’t say it is because Cameron’s brainwashed you.”  
          “Ash, I’m sorry.”  
          “Stop apologizing on his behalf. Even if it came from him, I wouldn’t accept it.”  
          The Aussie huffed. “This is over. I’m getting married to Cameron. It’s not up for debate.”  
          “You’re engaged, not married. You can still back out. I can _help_ you back out.”  
          “I’ve made my decision, Ash.”  
          Ash stopped pacing. Both of them were quiet for a moment. Though he felt bad, Max also found Ash’s inability to accept his decision frustrating.  
           _Why can’t he accept it? We’ve only known each other for a few days!_  
          “Let’s say Cameron wasn’t around anymore,” Ash proposed. “Would we have a chance together, then?”  
          “To be honest, I don’t know. If I never met Cameron and we met under normal circumstances, then . . . I don’t know. Maybe I might’ve dated you for a while.”  
          “Do you like me?”  
          “Yeah. You’re a decent guy, Ash.”  
          “Do you find me attractive?”  
          Max rolled his eyes. “Yes.”  
          “Do you love me?”  
          “Ash.”  
          “Do you?”  
          “Ash, you know what my answer is already.”  
          “I want to hear you say it.”  
          Max let out a sharp exhale. “No. I don’t love you. I like you as a person and wish you well, but I don’t love you. I love Cameron.”  
          There was a long spell of silence. Through it, Max rubbed his forehead in growing irritation.  
           _The longer I stay, the more I ruin what little friendship there is to salvage. I should leave before we hate each other._  
          A sound caught his attention. It sounded like the glugging of liquid pouring out of a bottle. Behind him, he could hear it spilling against the floor. His heavy heart sunk further. With as little movement as possible, he turned his eyes to the space beside Ash’s chair.  
          The bottle of chardonnay was gone.  
          “I’m sorry, Maxie.” With that, he slammed the now-empty thick glass bottle against the back of Max’s head. The force of the blow stunned him, causing him to fall sideways and roll off the couch. Watching him, studying him, he walked around the length to stand at his feet. Max groaned, half-conscious. As he laid there, his fingers rubbed against the carpet. Pushing the table out of the way, the white couch back, he picked him up by his hood. When he started dragging him toward the bedroom, he finally got the strength to fight, albeit weakly.  
          “No . . . ! _No_ . . . !”  
          Ash whipped him down onto the bed. Then, he leaned over him. With full force, he gripped Max’s throat. The resulting asphyxiation made the Aussie try to gasp. His weak, scrawny hands clawed at the stronger ones around his neck.  
          “The agreement was that we would _share_ you,” Ash declared. “Now you’re going off to marry him? Without me? What about me? What about _me_? You belong to _me_ , goddamn you! I tried to _save_ you from him! I _will_ save you from him.”  
          As he choked, Max tried to say his name. Then, when that didn’t work, he started trying to say something else. Ash listened, attempting to figure out what it was.  
          “C— _Caa_ — _aam_ —! _Aack_! C- _Caah_ —!”  
          “Don’t cry for him. He’s a dead man walking! I’ll kill him for trying to take you from me!” In protest, Ash wrung Max’s neck tighter. The Aussie’s attempts to fight him were growing weaker with each second.  
          “Shh, shh, Maxie. Shh. I’m here. It’s me. I’ll keep you safe. You’re safe with me. It’s okay. You and I will be together forever. So, shh. I love you, but you made me do this.”  
          He watched the Aussie’s sad gray eyes as they rolled up a few times. Then, at last, his dark eyelids drooped shut and he stopped fighting. For good measure, Ash kept choking him for a few seconds longer. Then, as if only now realizing what he was doing, he tore himself back. Breathing hard from fear, he took a step back. Max didn’t start coughing or squirming. He only laid there. Ash lifted his bangs up, pressing his hand against his forehead as he leaned against the wall.  
          “M-Maxie?”  
          Nothing.  
          The auditor pulled himself off the wall and tried to steady his breathing. He held out his hands and looked down at them.  
          “Look at me. Look at what I’ve done. Maxie, you’ve made me into a monster . . . but I still love you.” He twitched, snapped his head up to look at the strangled Australian strewn across the bed. On unsteady feet, he wobbled closer and leaned down on him again. His eyes were open only a sliver, but he didn’t blink them. Curious, the auditor wrapped his hand around one of his wrists. A few seconds later, satisfied, he dragged Max further onto the bed. In doing so, he wound up laying over him, a leg between his. A warm shiver ran down his body; in response, he caressed Max’s cheek.  
          “I love you so much.”  
          When their lips met, he was fine with the lack of reciprocation. Max’s lips were soft and sweet enough that he didn’t need him to kiss back to enjoy the sensation. Though he wasn’t sure how long after that he spent kissing him, sooner or later he noticed he was getting hard. Yet, despite his urge for satisfaction, he forced himself to pull away and stand up.  
          “Later. We can enjoy ourselves later. For now . . .” He approached the closet; pulled out four belts. Before meeting Max, he’d always wondered why he felt compelled to have so many belts in his luggage. They all matched, and it seemed pointless to have more than one. But now, he was glad he had them. Same as before, he wrapped the belts around the bedframe, then used them to tie down Max’s wrists and ankles.  
          “So you don’t run,” he informed the husk. After taking off the one he wore at present, he got his tie from the closet as well. He stuffed it into Max’s mouth, then wrapped on the belt to hold it in place.  
          “There. Now you’re safe from yourself.” Loving, he sat on the edge of the bed and again caressed his cheek. “I’ll be back, Maxie. When I return, you’ll be free. I’m going to save you from Cameron.” He leaned over, kissed the Aussie’s pale cheek. As he did so, he dug a hand through his pockets until he found his cellphone. Pocketing it, he also reached down and removed Max’s engagement ring. This, he slipped into the breast pocket of his shirt. “You’ll love me after I save you from his brainwashing.”  
          The living area smelled like wine, but cleaning the spilled chardonnay was the least of his concerns right now. From the hook near the door, he grabbed his blue, purple-lapelled coat. After slipping it on, he took out his own cellphone and dialed a number near the bottom of his contact list. It started ringing, so while he waited, he glanced into a mirror on the wall and adjusted his hair. Finally, his call was answered. He smirked at his reflection and put on his best casual voice.  
          “Hello, I’d like a taxi.”


	15. Karma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 14th, 2018.

Though it would’ve taken him only a few minutes more, Cameron stopped packing halfway through. At first, he tried to convince himself that he stopped because he couldn’t be bothered to continue. That he found it boring. Deep down, though, he knew he had a different reason.  
          It was true that Max’s reminder of August’s words rattled him a bit. In his last moments, the Dane had claimed to know him. He described his love of coincidences, his refusal to keep bad memories around; citing the latter as proof that Julian’s death wasn’t suicide. If not for that accusation, he might not have killed the man. Then there was the fact that August twisted it further, saying that _he_ was the bad memory, not Julian. That he was afraid of him, because he _knew_ he knew him better than anyone else.  
          Cameron had long realized he was likely correct about that much. Even if he downplayed it a lot, in college August had shown a lot of potential in the field of behavioral psychology. Without him ever even noticing, he’d watched Cameron like a hawk, studying his every action, every tick. For this, he both respected the Dane and held him in contempt. August might’ve had good intentions, but he was still cunning and manipulative in his own way. How much of their so-called relationship had he actually felt? It felt to Cameron like even his final moments were carefully planned; after all, they’d given Val the fury he needed to fight back. That blond bastard had calculated everything. Cameron took pride in having bested him in the end. No matter how hard the Dane tried to believe he was human, he proved him wrong . . . Or had he?  
          Were he around to see it, he knew August would feel smug about his to-be marriage with Max. It proved him right: that he wanted companionship like a normal person. He’d tried for so long to prove this himself, by offering himself as the companion. Cameron had felt certain that this meant the Dane was in love with him. But, thinking about it now, he found himself questioning that judgment. Did the Dane get so close to him out of true affection, or out of a curiosity to see how he’d react to love?  
          “Manipulative bastard,” Cameron found himself muttering to himself. “Did I make you that way, or were you always playing society like chess?” A funny thought occurred to him. “Which of us was the real psychopath?”  
          He supposed he could never know for certain. It was possible that the psychopathic front he hadn’t noticed until now was merely empathized—learned from him. It was also possible that he was a psychopath from the get-go. If so, though, then he’d managed to do a good job of hiding it to others. August had tried hard to be a model citizen. Almost too hard.  
          “I can’t believe I didn’t see how far your happy little mask slipped until now.”  
          Or, maybe, he was only projecting onto August in an attempt to convince himself he’d done the right thing. Whatever the case, it was in the past. August Lund was dead. But why, then, did it hurt him to realize that? If he’d only given him a date!  
          “Fucking stupid idiot. We could’ve celebrated your birthday together. I could’ve shared some carrot cake with you—given you a poisoned slice. You could’ve died painlessly. Why did you have to be so goddamned stubborn? What made Val so goddamned important that you’d risk your life for him?”  
          It just didn’t make sense. August had accepted his death, even egged it on. Why? For Val’s benefit, even though he’d die? To Cameron, August seemed a brilliant mathematician who took a calculated risk, but with terrible math. He couldn’t understand it. He likely never would.  
          A ding from his phone pulled him out of his inner debate. At first, he did nothing, unsure of how to react to the noise. Then, a few seconds later, when nothing else happened, he pulled it out to check. There he found a text from Max. This didn’t surprise him, but the contents of the message did.  
          “I’m at your grandparents’ house. We need to talk.”  
          For a few seconds, he wasn’t sure how to respond. What could he want to talk about? By the sounds of it, it seemed like something bad. Was he having second thoughts? Had Chandler told him something? Why was he back at his grandparents’ place?  
          “Why?” he wrote back, but there was no answer. Max didn’t even read it. Something gave him a bad feeling. Something didn’t add up. Even so, he grabbed his coat and left the suite. As he headed for the elevator, he called for a taxi. It took ten minutes for one to finally pull up. Purposeful, he hopped into the back and spat out the address at the driver. Then, as the cab started to move, he tried to call Max. It rung and rung and rung, but there was no answer. Cursing under his breath, he dropped the call.  
          “Drive faster,” he ordered. The driver obeyed, albeit with reluctance.  
          What had happened? Had Ash convinced him of something? It was stupid to trust him; they had too much in common. He and Max must’ve been there now, waiting with his grandparents. Or was it Max who said something stupid? Did the Aussie mention August, or something otherwise incriminating? Frustrated, he tried to call again. The result was the same.  
          Ten minutes later, the taxi stopped in front of his grandparents’ house. He threw a random amount of cash at him as he leapt out, snapping “Keep the change.” Confused, the driver accepted and drove off. Cameron gazed at the house.  
          He had no reason to have a bad feeling, did he? His ideas would be just that: ideas. If Max was having second thoughts, he was certain he’d have no difficulty turning him around. So, holding his head high, he strutted toward the door. With a steady hand, he rang the doorbell.  
          . . . But no one answered.  
          He rang again, waited for Dottie. Were they out?  
          “Max?” he called. There was no response. He reached down and grabbed the handle. “Max, let—”  
          The door drifted open when he turned the handle and pushed. This startled him for only a second, before he thought that Max must’ve requested they leave the door open. It would only be him and Max, assuming Ash left too. Comforted by that thought, he stepped into the veranda.  
          Something still didn’t feel right, though. He couldn’t put a finger on what the problem was. Perturbed, he glanced around the veranda. Nothing seemed out of place, except . . . the shoes. Dottie’s and Chandler’s were still there. They were the only ones there.  
          “Max?” he called out again. “Are you here?”  
          He decided not to remove his own shoes. If Max was inside with his, then it would only be a waste of time. But if Dottie was still in there, why hadn’t she opened the door?  
          “Dottie? Chandler? Anybody?”  
          When Cameron opened the door to his grandparents’ house, the first thing he smelled was blood. It didn’t come as too much of a surprise, then, when he found his grandparents in the living room. They were lying near each other, throats slit; blood making the white carpet seem dark scarlet brown. Dottie had received especially brutal treatment, face mutilated with stab wounds. Judging by the blood around her body, her trunk was the same. Chandler, though, only had his throat slit.  
          “Someone doesn’t like women,” Cameron murmured to himself.  
          He knew their murders were meant to upset him, but they didn’t. If anything, their deaths to him were only slight annoyances. Seeing Chandler dead was half a plus, though it made him jealous; he would’ve liked to kill the old man himself.  
          “What meaningless violence. Nothing to gain, killing them . . .”  
          The writer pulled out his cellphone. Max’s text was still open. Cameron read it again.  
          Had Max found the bodies? If so, where was he? Better yet, Cameron had to question why he’d come here in the first place. They were supposed to be packing for tomorrow’s flight. Not that they had much to pack . . .  
          “Max?” Cameron called out once more. The name echoed throughout the expensive house without a reply. Only eerie silence. The dark ecru-skinned writer didn’t want to admit it when he felt fear beginning to blossom within him.  
          The Aussie hadn’t been acting quite like himself these past few months. As of late, it’d only become more drastic. Was this the pinnacle of it? Had he driven his innocent Max to sporadic murder?  
          That didn’t make sense, though. Over the past few days, he’d been acting more like himself than ever! What had happened between him and Ash? Did he even go to Ash?  
          He looked down at his phone. His hand was quivering. Regardless, he pressed the call button.  
          Deeper into the house, it started: Max’s ringtone. The sound of it here, now, further agitated Cameron. Though he attempted to distance himself from the fear, the slight tremble in his body remained. If it’d been anyone else, he wouldn’t have felt a thing. But it was Max. Max, who he’d studied for almost two years, who’d only two months ago stopped being predictable. Anyone else, he could’ve guessed their next move. Could’ve guessed their motive, their purpose, whether they intended to kill him next. But Max . . . Would Max kill him? Would Max even remember killing his grandparents? He trusted the Aussie—he was the _only_ person he trusted. Was that a mistake?  
          With slow footsteps, Cameron slunk past his grandparents’ bodies, into the dining room. There was no wall separating it from the kitchen, so the pantry door of foggy glass was visible to him over the island. The ringtone was coming from inside. Cameron felt himself make a dark smirk. The pantry was short and narrow. As the one not cornered inside, he’d have the upper hand.  
          On the counter beside the pantry door was a wooden knife block. One was missing, so Cameron took one as well. With his fingertip, he tested the sharpness of its edge and point. It would do.  
          The pantry’s was a sliding door. He reached for the concave handle, knife in his dominant left hand. With force, he tore the door open. Then, he stood there, waiting for something to happen. The ringtone continued, but no one jumped out at him. As he tightened his grip on the knife’s handle, he stepped into the pantry. There was a pile of boxes near the back, tall enough for someone to crouch behind. He raised the knife, stepped closer. When he whipped his head to see who was behind the tower, he saw no one. The ringtone sounded closer still. He raised his eyes; on the edge of the third-lowest shelf sat Max’s phone.  
          Cameron’s confidence and heart both sunk. His mistake only became clearer when he heard someone step into the doorway. The ringtone finally stopped. Cameron dared not move, though it was obvious he’d been seen. Was he afraid, or only disappointed by his own gullibility? He wasn’t sure; hiding in the pantry seemed like a “Max” thing to do. Though, it seemed that way because he’d forgotten that Max wasn’t quite himself anymore.  
          The writer let out a small, defeated huff before saying the name of who would now either be his killer or next victim: “Max.”  
          “Guess again.”  
          Cameron opened his eyes. As a small wave of relief washed over him, he turned his head. Upon seeing Ash standing there, white shirt soaked in blood, crimson-stained knife gripped tight in his right hand, it became a tidal wave.  
          “Oh, thank Christ.” The writer turned completely and let out a deep breath. “It’s only you. I was worried you were Max!”  
          Ash said nothing. Wordless, he continued to stand there, glaring at Cameron with his head tilted down. There was a dark look in his eyes that screamed murder, but it didn’t cause him much concern.  
          “So,” he began, voice rather casual. “How did you find them?”  
          “I followed you two here this morning,” Ash answered, voice monotone. “I didn’t know who they were until Max told me you had grandparents in the city who didn’t approve of your marriage.”  
          The writer shook his head. “I knew you were cunning. But this doesn’t hurt me, you know? It’s inconvenient, I’ll give you that much. I didn’t care about them too much, though.”  
          Ash smirked a little. “I thought you were smarter than this, Fenn.”  
          “What do you mean?”  
          “I didn’t kill them to hurt you.”  
          “Why, then?”  
          The auditor raised the knife, examining the way the blood on it glistened. “You were jealous,” he explained, “because Max was having an affair. So you killed him. Then, looking for support, you ran to your grandparents. But they threatened to call the police. So you were forced to kill them, too. Unable to handle your grief, you then turned the knife on yourself . . .” He pointed the tip of the blade at Cameron. “. . . Poetic, isn’t it? As a writer, I thought you’d appreciate it.”  
          Cameron took a beat to quietly stare at Ash. The auditor looked disheveled; he’d lost his mind, that much was clear. His plot in whole did little to stir the writer. What worried him, though, were his first two sentences. “Where’s Max?”  
          “You killed him.”  
          Cameron shook his head again, slower. “No. Where is he?”  
          “ _You_ killed him, Cameron.”  
          His heart was starting to pick up pace. Fear had a firm grip on him. “Is he dead?”  
          In response, Ash reached up with his free hand and dug into his breast pocket. From it, he pulled out Max’s engagement ring. A heaving, shuddering breath escaped Cameron’s lungs at the sight of it. Its presence now made it feel like the world was crumbling around him.  
          Ash held the ring up in two fingers for him to see. “This is your fault,” he insisted. Then, he dropped it. Cameron watched it fall; it seemed to do so in slow-motion. Each flip of it through the air reminded him of something different. The first time he saw Max’s face. Touching Max for the first time. Kissing Max for the first time in the dark bedroom of his shitty apartment. His conversation with Max during his suicide attempt. His conversation with Max after the suicide attempt failed. Celebrating Max’s birthday for the first time. Making love to Max. Realizing he was in love with Max. Max, Max, Max. His eyes. His hair. His lips. His smell. His taste. His laugh. His smile.  
          The proposal.  
          With a hollow _tink_ sound, the ring hit the floor.  
          Gone. Gone. Gone. It was all gone.  
          At that moment, Cameron learned how good a motivator anguish could be. With a scream, he lunged forward, his own knife at the ready. Wild, intent only on killing Ash. He didn’t care when his birthday was. He didn’t care that it wasn’t a doomsday. Ashton Sinclair needed to die _now_.  
          Ash jumped back, evading his swipe. This didn’t deter Cameron, though; the writer swiped at him some more. Their knives clashed a few times with the sharp sounds of metal on metal. For once, there was no plan. His only goal was to kill Ash; he didn’t care if he could evade the police afterward. Foresight was something he no longer possessed in the heat of the moment. Murder was the only thing on his mind.  
          When he finally struck downward, the auditor barely avoided it. His response was to slash up; Cameron managed to dodge. Then, Ash grabbed him and, before he could react, whipped him into the kitchen island. With a shout of effort, he raised the knife. There was a cutting board on the counter; Cameron grabbed it and whipped around. Using it, he blocked and parried the attack. Ash stumbled back as Cameron threw the board at him. The auditor deflected this with his arm, smacking it to the floor.  
          “Why are you fighting?” he asked. “You started this. Have the courtesy to accept what I’ve written for you. Stop trying to avenge yourself.”  
          Cameron twirled the knife in his hand. “This _isn’t_ about avenging _me_ ,” he said. Then, he dashed forward again. Ash sidestepped, swung back; the knife struck the cupboard door a few inches shy of Cameron’s shoulder. In response, the writer smacked his arm; pushing it out of the way, he moved forward and kneed him in the stomach. With a heaved sound, Ash bent over and recoiled from the collision. Cameron then stabbed _him_ in the shoulder, causing him to shout in pain. He ripped the knife out, jumped back before Ash could retaliate.  
          He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell him something to destroy his soul, or make him angry. Something like “Max loved you”, or “You’re a selfish asshole”. But the words wouldn’t come forward in his mind. Fury had made him speechless. Words didn’t matter anymore.  
          As Ash started to stand up straight, he lunged at him, tackling him to the floor. Not expecting this, the auditor almost dropped his knife. Cameron sat back on his chest—kicked at his wrist and held it down. Before Ash could get around this, he’d crouched forward. In this awkward kneel, he placed the blade against Ash’s throat. He didn’t give the auditor time to say or do anything; that was too risky. Instead, he ripped the blade aside, tearing open his flesh. Ash immediately choked and gasped for air, yet still he fought with his free hand. But sooner rather than later, the hand fell over his gaping neck instead. Cameron stayed right there, staring right at him.  
          “I’m going to watch you die,” he snarled with a dark smirk. “I’m going to watch you bleed out and wait until you die.”  
          Ash gurgled and kept trying to free his armed hand. But Cameron’s foot dug into his wrist, pinning it to the floor. Cameron stayed true to his word; for forty-five minutes, he stayed where he was, unmoving despite Ash’s kicking and flailing. It took Ash ten of those minutes to stop thrashing and pass out from shock. The remaining thirty-five, he spent twitching and gagging on his own blood, desperate for air. Then, he stopped. Now, his lively skin was pale like porcelain. His blood spread out around him on the floor like a scarlet ocean. Just in case, though, Cameron sat and watched him for an extra ten minutes, maybe more. There was nothing. Taking care in trying not to get his fingerprints on it, he placed his knuckles firm on Ash’s right wrist. No pulse. How could there be? All his blood was on the tiled kitchen floor.  
          For Cameron, this murder was a unique one. Usually, he felt a rush after killing someone. He felt giddy and eager, sometimes even horny. But this time . . . This time, he felt nothing. Satisfied as he should’ve been that Ash was dead, he felt nothing. Looking at him reminded of Max.  
          Max . . . Was his body at the hotel? It had to be.  
          Feeling like he was watching someone else do this, he slid back, careful not to get any of the blood on him. This was a challenge in and of itself, but he managed to do it with moderate success. Digging through Ash’s pockets, he found nothing but his wallet and phone. Neither was useful to him, so he left them.  
          Still holding his knife, he got to his feet. His body glanced toward the pantry. Wobbling, he stumbled into it again.  
          Had he been wounded in his altercation with Ash? He didn’t think so, but something hurt like he was about to die. There was a strong urge to collapse to the floor and lie there, see if he would. So he sunk to his knees. Rather than keel over, though, he reached under the pantry shelf. Patting the floor over and over, he finally found it, pulling it out in his hand. Lifting it, he opened his palm to look at Max’s engagement ring. He put it in his coat pocket. Then, he got up and grabbed Max’s phone from one of the shelf’s levels. This, too, he pocketed.  
          How could he get out of this? He leaned against the wall and ran his hand over his face. There was nowhere to hide the bodies. Even if he did that, he’d never be able to get Dottie and Chandler’s blood out of the carpet. Removing the carpet was too conspicuous. Without a car of his own, he wasn’t left with many options.  
          Claiming self-defense wouldn’t work. Slitting Ash’s throat wasn’t something he could defend. At best, he’d get voluntary manslaughter. Still, that meant prison. If he’d stabbed him once or twice instead, it might’ve been a valid out, if not requiring tedious court visits and a trial.  
          Without Max, though . . . was prison that bad an option? He had half a mind to turn himself in and beg they prosecute him.  
          Max. Finding Max was the priority. Cameron didn’t know how he’d react to finding his corpse, but it was still something he needed to do. If only to make sure . . .  
          It took Cameron a few minutes to find Ash’s coat. The eccentric-looking article of clothing was strewn down at the foot of the stairs. With care, he searched its pockets until he found Ash’s suite keycard. Still, he had the knife in his hand. Was it dripping blood around the house? He didn’t care.  
          All of a sudden, an idea. He didn’t smirk at it or anything, still feeling dead. On weak legs, he returned to the kitchen. Dottie had dishwashing gloves in one of the drawers. Using the hilt of the knife, he opened and closed some until he found them. Once they were on, he unzipped his coat and used his shirt to rub down the hilt. After washing its blade in the sink, he returned to the knife block and placed it inside.  
          Pulling Ash’s knife from his hand was still easy. He ran the edge of its blade through the still-liquidated blood. Then, he placed it back in his hand.  
          He didn’t need to cover anything up. Ash had set the perfect stage: he broke in, murdered two innocent old people, and slit his own throat so he couldn’t be caught. After all, Cameron had left no signs of his presence in the struggle; he’d shed no blood. No one but Dottie and Chandler ever entered or left the house. The only thing that would alert people of their deaths would be the smell, but that would take a few days to develop. Cameron could be out of the country by then. His alibi was shaky, but what motive did he have to kill any of them? No one could prove he was there. He’d hide his hand in the crime in plain sight, using Ash himself as the scapegoat. No one would suspect a thing.


	16. Never

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 15th, 2018.

“We’re here.”  
          Cameron was still in a trance even after hearing the taxi driver say something to him. He moved his head a little, looking at the man but not seeing him. For a long moment, he wondered both what he’d said and whether he was talking to him or someone else he didn’t know was there.  
          “Sir?”  
          “Hmm?” Cameron arched his neck forward as he tilted his head in confusion.  
          “Park Hyatt, right?”  
          “Yes . . .” Cameron nodded. That sounded right.  
          “We’re here.”  
          The writer glanced to his right. “Ah . . . Right. Um . . .” He pulled out his wallet, paid in a daze, and got out of the cab. It drove away as he stood in front of the hotel entrance. To people passing by, he must’ve looked lost. That was because he was. At least, that was how he felt.  
          The paintings in the black marble lobby seemed to be taunting him with their colors. There was so much red in them, further accented by the hotel’s warm lighting. It was only two in the afternoon, but it felt like nighttime. Looking down at the keycard, he realized he had no idea which suite it was for. Luckily for him, the name was written on it for him: Park Executive Suite. At the very least, he knew which floor that was on. The rest, he would have to piece together on his own.  
          Time seemed to still be moving slower than normal as he rode up in the elevator. He’d never felt this way before. Apathy and sadness were the only two things he could feel. Everything sounded muffled. It was like he wasn’t awake, only walking through a lucid nightmare. Of all the things he might’ve felt at news of Max’s death . . . this wasn’t among them. Sure, he might’ve expected himself to be upset. But he was depressed. He had to wonder: was this anything like how August had felt after watching Julian die? How Max had felt after watching August die? Julian’s death had hurt him, but not this much. He’d even seen Julian die in person. Max, he’d only _heard_ he was dead. Why did it hurt him so much?  
          When the elevator doors opened, he hesitated before stepping out. Then, as the doors closed behind him, he stood in place. He felt like a lost child, looking for his mother, scared of being alone. He wandered the halls for a few minutes, passing doors but not seeing them, walking in circles. There was no urge to commit. The longer he spent not knowing which door to use the keycard on, the better.  
          Only a few hours ago, Max had been talking to him, joking about wanting to grow a beard. They’d shaved together, like two normal men. Now there was a good chance he was dead. Only a few hours ago, he’d made him happy with the thought of returning to Australia. Now he’d never get to see him happier with arriving there. Oh, how it hurt.  
          “Get a grip,” he grumbled to himself. “It’s not the end of the goddamned world . . .” It sure felt like it was, though. Out of the blue, he wished August was still alive. The Dane would be trying to comfort him right about now. He’d been someone he could cry to if he needed. But now, he had no one.  
          That sunk in gradually. He had no one. Before he met Max, at least August had still been alive. Now, if Max was dead . . . There was no one left. No one but his father, but he’d sooner turn himself in than turn to him for anything more than his wealth. That left him with two choices: to start over, or to give up. Either way, he was getting ahead of himself; this chapter of his life wasn’t over until he found Max’s body.  
          He hovered for a long moment in front of the door that was most likely to lead into Ash’s suite. It didn’t seem possible to gain the courage to open it. The thought of finding Max’s corpse somewhere inside was paralyzing. For the first time in a long time, he craved a cigarette. He’d always thought he’d want to kill Max at some point. Now he was acutely aware he’d been wrong to think that.  
          Finally, he pulled out the keycard and ran it through the scanner. With a beep, the light turned green. With slow movements, he pushed open the door.  
          The first thing that hit him as he entered Ash’s suite was the strong smell of chardonnay. Though it was better than the smell of blood, somehow it didn’t concern him any less. Okay, so, if Max _was_ in there, he hadn’t bled out. But why the wine?  
          He found out why when he stepped into the living area. Following the smell led him to the couch, which had been pushed back. There was a large puddle spilling out from under it, dampening the carpet as it soaked it up from the hardwood. The table was out of place as well. So, did that mean something happened here? A struggle of some sort? The thought intensified his anxiety.  
          As he stepped into the work area, with its desk and bookshelves, he noticed the doorway to the bedroom. Though, he couldn’t bring himself to get close enough to see through it. Instead, he stayed close to the wall, in the doorway to the study.  
          Oh, God. He was dead in the bedroom, wasn’t he? His beloved, precious, gentle Max. He’d been such an idiot to let him see Ash again! The one time he decides to be compassionate, it gets his favorite person killed. It was Max’s fault for taking him up on it. He should’ve stayed. He should’ve stayed!  
          Part of him tried to convince him that it’d been a bluff. That if Max was in there, he was still alive. Maybe he was sitting on the bed in fear, waiting to see who was lurking around the suite. There was no way he could be dead. Ash couldn’t have killed him, right? Right? Thinking he’d got a grip on himself, he stepped forward and looked into the bedroom. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was wrong.  
          He found Max immediately. The Aussie was lying on the bed—no, _bound_ to the bed by his wrists and ankles. There was a belt around his face, part of a makeshift gag. His eyes were closed. As Cameron stared, he didn’t move. He wasn’t moving. He looked pale.  
          He wasn’t moving.  
          For a few beats, Cameron only stared. He felt woozy and queasy, like he might faint, but beyond that he was okay. Then came the pain, like a stake to the heart. The room was spinning. Tears formed fast. All of a sudden, Cameron, who hadn’t had a tear to shed in years—who’d hardly shed more than crocodile tears for Julian—was crying. As strangled sounds escaped his mouth, he fell against the wall and slid down to the floor holding it.  
          He wasn’t even sure _why_ he was crying. It didn’t benefit him. It was messy and human and strange. Why was he doing it? The last time he’d cried, it had been to test August. But now . . . this was different. There was no goal to his bawling this time. Crying wouldn’t bring Max back. The best option was to get a grip and move on. And yet . . . he couldn’t. For some reason, there was a crippling vice of emotional pain in his chest. Even if he cried, it would never leave—only loosen to tighten again in a moment of weakness. For a few seconds, he despised Max for being the root of this new and unusual burden.  
          Was this love? This horrible dread—this feeling of helplessness—this _inability to cope_ —was _this_ love? If so, he wished he’d never met Max. He wished he could go back and warn himself that love wasn’t as impossible for him as he’d thought. That love would rip his heart out two years later in one of his favorite cities. Despite rationality telling him he had to, he didn’t want to move on. There was no point in starting over. Without Max, what was the point? Never would there be anyone else like him. Damn love! Without even wounding him, it had killed him.  
          A muffled sound ran through his ears, but he wasn’t listening. Had he made the noise himself? He placed his forehead against the doorway, leaning it there for physical support. Crying was giving him a headache, but he couldn’t stop.  
          “ _Cmm_ - _rrn_.”  
          The writer opened his watery, dark caramel eyes. Had he made that sound, too? It didn’t seem possible; he’d been too busy sobbing. Unless he’d said something under his breath?  
          “ _Cmm_ - _rrn_!” This time, it was joined by the creaking of the bedframe and a slight rustle of fabric.  
          What? Confused, Cameron cocked his head to the side. On the bed, Max had raised his head. The Aussie, brows furrowed, blinked at him. Cameron blinked back, unsure of what to do or how to react. Was he seeing this right, or had he lost his mind in the midst of his grief? The latter wouldn’t surprise him.  
          Max gave his restraints a tug. “ _Cmm_ - _rrn_ , _mmph_ ,” he grunted through the cloth in his mouth.  
          “Max . . . ?” Cameron asked, voice small and emotional.  
          Max nodded, tugged at his restraints again.  
          For a beat, Cameron did nothing. Then, movements jagged and rushed, he hurried to Max’s side and started undoing the belts holding his wrists down. Once his hands were free, the Aussie ripped off the makeshift gag and spat out the tie. He coughed and heaved to get more air. Cameron watched him do so, still not sure what was happening. Only a few seconds ago, he’d been certain Max was dead.  
          The Aussie finally looked at him. Noticing the lost look on his face, he explained on a shaky voice: “I thought you were Ash. So, I pretended to be dead. I think he thought he’d killed me, so I didn’t know what he’d do if I was still—”  
          Cameron wrapped his arms around Max and pulled him into a tight embrace. He held him so hard, it hurt even him, but he didn’t dare let go. One of his hands held the back of Max’s head, holding it firm in the crook of his shoulder. Max’s arms went around him as well, fingers digging into the back of his coat.  
          “Max,” he cried. “I swear to fucking God if you ever do that to me again, I’ll kill you myself.”  
          “Well, that wouldn’t help anything, would it?” mumbled the Aussie with a small laugh.  
          Cameron pulled back and looked Max in the eyes. He huffed out a sob that was half a laugh. It only now occurring to him, he took hold of Max’s left hand. From a pocket, he took out the ring. With trembling hands, he slipped it back onto the Aussie’s ring finger. Still shaken, Max looked down at it, then back up at him. He beamed a troubled smile. Cameron caressed the side of his head, then kissed him hard. Max returned it. Then, a few seconds later, the writer pulled away and held him again. This time, his hold was gentler, though still firm enough for the Aussie to not be able to escape. Not that he tried; instead, he held him as well.  
          “How did you know I was here?” he asked.  
          “Ash said he’d killed you,” Cameron answered quietly. “It didn’t seem likely you’d leave the hotel, so if he _did_ kill you, he’d have to do it here. There aren’t many ways to get your body out without getting caught.”  
          “You saw Ash,” Max mumbled. It seemed to finally be dawning on him. “Where did you get his keycard? He . . . He wouldn’t give it to you.”  
          “He killed Dottie and Chandler.”  
          The Aussie’s body slacked a bit. “Oh, God. I thought I noticed a taxi following us there this morning . . .”  
          “When he said he’d killed you, I . . .” Cameron nuzzled closer against him. “I don’t know. I snapped, I guess.”  
          “He’s not . . . ?”  
          “I left his body there. Made it look like a murder-suicide. Because, I mean, it was, except . . . Except I forced the suicide by killing him myself. But he must’ve been suicidal, telling me something like that . . .”  
          Max said nothing.  
          “You didn’t want me to kill him, I know. I’m not sorry, though.”  
          He shook his head. “No. Don’t be,” he said. “I don’t blame you.”  
          It was Cameron’s turn to be silent.  
          “If he told me he’d killed _you_ , then . . . I would’ve killed him, too.”  
          A small, bittersweet laugh. “No, you wouldn’t’ve. You would’ve wanted to, maybe, but you’re not a killer.”  
          Again, Max said nothing. This silence felt less like waiting and more like an actual response, but of what kind was hard to tell. Cameron took this as a signal to stop talking. So, instead, he held the Aussie a bit tighter. He could fall asleep like this, fatigued from emotion and relief.  
          “We shouldn’t stay in here,” he told his lover. “Let’s get back to our suite.”  
          “What if someone finds the bodies?” Max asked all of a sudden.  
          “Don’t worry. We’ll be out of the country by then.”  
          Together, they returned the belts to the closet and corrected the couch and table. After correcting the suite, they left and headed into the elevator. Inside, Max leaned his head against the gently rumbling wall.  
          “What did he do to you?” asked Cameron.  
          “He hit me over the head with the chardonnay bottle, I reckon. Then he dragged me into the bedroom and started strangling me. Anything after that, I can’t remember. I must’ve blacked out.”  
          “How long ago did you come to?”  
          Max shrugged. “Half an hour? I’m not sure. Felt like ages, though. Wasn’t sure if I was alone or not, so every little creak scared the shit outta me.”  
          They got out of the elevator on their floor and returned to their suite. Once inside, Cameron rubbed his eyes, sniffled, and promptly resumed packing. Max, meanwhile, leaned against the wall and watched him. As he did, he fiddled with the pendant around his neck.  
          “You cried for me.”  
          Cameron didn’t answer, continuing to put things into the suitcase.  
          “I didn’t think you’d do that.”  
          “Why not?”  
          Max lifted his head a little. “I expected something more like a sigh, at most.”  
          “I love you, Max. I wasn’t lying when I said it.”  
          “But you didn’t seem the type to cry.”  
          Cameron sighed, finally stopped. After a beat, he said, “Don’t ever leave me again.”  
          “I won’t.”  
          “You promise?”  
          “I promise.”  
          The writer turned to look at him. When he gave him a small smirk, he stepped over and leaned down, kissing him again. Max again returned it; a few seconds later, he wrapped his arms over his shoulders. Another few seconds, and Cameron broke the kiss.  
          “I thought you’d be mad at me,” he said.  
          Max’s face sobered; his eyes looked tired and loving, but he had the faintest of frowns on his lips.  
          “You are, aren’t you? About Ash?”  
          The Aussie stared, blinked, stared some more. Finally, he shook his head slowly from side to side. In a drone: “You did the right thing.”  
          This didn’t comfort Cameron much. “You seem angry.” Or, rather, not: he seemed robotic; cold and distanced. In response to this comment, though, the Aussie plastered on a terse smile.  
          “Can we drop the subject?” he asked.  
          “I won’t apologize. I _did_ do the right thing.”  
          “I know. You did.”  
          “Then why do you look so . . .” To his surprise, he found it difficult to find a word to accurately describe Max’s expression. “Grim?”  
          “I’m worried we’re in deep shit,” the Aussie mumbled. “I mean . . . You left his body there?”  
          “In the kitchen, yeah.”  
          “Did you clean anything?”  
          “He’s lying in a puddle of his own blood, some of which is on the knife’s edge.”  
          The Aussie shook his head. “They’re going to bring you in for questioning.”  
          “What makes you say that?”  
          “Your grandparents are dead. The day after their murders, you leave the country. That’s a tad suspicious, don’t you think?”  
          Cameron shrugged. “It’s a coincidence.”  
          “The police _love_ coincidences. We shouldn’t leave.”  
          “Is staying any better?”  
          “God, no. Not at all.”  
          “Then let’s go to Australia.”  
          Max brought his hands to his head as he shook it.  
          “Stop stressing. She’ll be apples.”  
          “No, she won’t fuckin’ be apples. We’re fucked, Cameron. And I mean that in a few different ways.”  
          Cameron shrugged again and returned to his suitcase. He zipped it shut, then started packing for Max. “I don’t see why you’re so bothered. It shouldn’t matter to you.”  
          “Shouldn’t matter to me? Cameron, you’re my fiancé. You could be my husband in a month. Of _course_ it matters to me.” He huffed, leaned back against wall again. “Besides, this affects me too. I’m in Ash’s contact list. I’m one of the last people he texted. If they trace the number . . .”  
          “We can turn off location tracking, Max.”  
          “But the cellphone tower data . . .”  
          With a sigh, Cameron stepped back over to him. Then, he held out his hand. “Give it here.”  
          Max checked his pockets. “Um . . . I don’t . . .”  
          The writer realized: “Oh. Right.” From his coat pocket, he pulled out Max’s phone. He then walked over to the suite’s window. After pushing aside the white curtain, he opened it. Max watched without comment as he rolled his arm back, then threw the phone out, as far as he could. After that, he turned back to him with a smirk.  
          “Not our problem anymore.”  
          Max gazed at him in shock for a beat, then scoffed. His scoff soon spiraled into laughter. Cameron watched him as he laughed, taking note that while it did seem to be out of amusement, the Aussie sounded somewhat unstable. It sounded like at any moment, the laughter could turn into full-blown sobbing. It didn’t, but his laughs wavered somewhat like they were on the brink. Rather than point this out or worry over it, he decided to return to his side. Max’s troubled gray eyes met his as his somewhat-deranged hysteria died down.  
          “Max?”  
          “Mm-hmm?”  
          Resisting the urge to ask if he was okay, Cameron smirked. Even if he wasn’t fine, he could fix him. The marriage would help him recover. He was only stressed from his near-death experience and hearing that Ash was dead. “You’re so paranoid,” he teased. “I told you: she’ll be apples.”  
          Max responded first with a thousand-yard stare, then by pressing their lips together again. Appreciating this initiative, Cameron held him close again. He couldn’t be any happier than he was in that moment. After being so sure he was dead, he was holding Max in his arms again, kissing him. Plus, it seemed like he had feelings (though he wasn’t sure how he felt about this revelation).  
          Love was a fearsome beast, but if it meant keeping Max by his side, he was happy to risk that kind of pain again. It made him feel like a masochist; a glutton for punishment. But it didn’t matter. Nothing did, except that he was in love. Nothing could ever take him away from Max again. The Aussie would be his, by his side, forever, regardless of whether he had second thoughts at some point. He’d never let him go. Not until death did them part.


	17. Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 16th, 2018.

Zürich’s airport, Flughafen Zürich, still had beautiful straw-gold Christmas lights hanging over its half walls. Over the escalators, there were three giant rings of them, the ones in the middle smaller and smaller. The shadow gray marble floors reminded of the hotel. At 10:20 PM, with the moon up outside, the twinkling lights were all the more gorgeous to Max.  
          Their flight on Singapore Airlines was due in twenty-five minutes. The plan was to catch a near-thirteen hour flight to Singapore, then to finish the journey with an eight hour flight to Brisbane. All in all, Cameron said, including layover, the journey would take about twenty-seven hours. That, of course, was assuming everything went according to plan. Nothing ever did, but Max didn’t care anymore.  
          They’d be flying in a Boeing 777. Max wanted to say the lucky number didn’t affect him, but he knew that was a lie. In his mind, it was either a good sign or their flight was jinxed. Obviously, he embraced the former. The second, he realized, might not be unwelcomed, though.  
          He was sitting on a bench on the second floor, looking up at the blue screen above him. Cameron was beside him, skimming through a newspaper. Whether he knew German was unknown to Max even now, but he seemed absorbed in it.  
           _He must know at least a little. Hasn’t he been coming here since he was a kid?_  
          White text on the blue screen announced the timetables for upcoming flights. Near the bottom of the left-hand side, he saw “2245, Singapore, LX, 178, E34”. Flight SWISS 178 to Singapore at 10:45 PM, gate E34. He leaned back on the bench with a low sigh.  
           _Is this what I expected, going onto Omegle that night? Because of a random match online, I’m about to marry a murderer. Who could’ve predicted that?_  
          “I’ve never been to Singapore before,” Cameron said, catching Max off-guard. When the Aussie looked at him, he saw that he’d not even looked away from his newspaper. It was as if he spoke to entertain Max, not caring either way whether he decided to carry on a conversation.  
          “Neither have I,” Max admitted, taking up his starter.  
          “Do you know anything about it?”  
          “No. Don’t you?”  
          “No, but I suppose we’d better learn quick, seeing as we’ll be spending about seven hours there.”  
          “Is it that big a concern?”  
          “I don’t want to walk into Singapore and wave at someone only to get my head blown off because I didn’t know waving is a capital offense.”  
          Max got a bit of a chuckle from his extreme example. “I doubt it’ll be anything like that, mate. I’m sure they get a lot of tourists. Besides, I thought you liked new experiences.”  
          “I do!” he assured as he turned the page of his newspaper with a rustle. “It’s just a little daunting to stop in a country I know nothing about.”  
          “Join the club. I’m scared too, you know?” A long pause. “Anything interesting?”  
          Cameron closed the paper. “I can’t read a fuckin’ thing.”  
          A small laugh, then Max stopped. As people passed them by in the lobby, he found himself, as Cameron would say, “paranoid”. What if one of these people recognized them? What if someone knew what Cameron had done somehow? What if some police officers walked over and asked to take them in for questioning?  
           _This is dangerous. We shouldn’t be hidden in plain sight like this. If the police only knew what he looks like, who they were looking for . . . They’ll figure it out eventually. Sooner or later, he’s going to—_ he caught himself mid-thought, corrected himself. We’re _going to get caught._ Then, he reached over and took Cameron’s hand in his. The writer glanced at him, but when he didn’t look back at him, he returned his eyes to the newspaper and squeezed his hand.  
           _What would my parents think?_ He wondered this out of the blue. _Not only am I about to marry another man, but he’s a serial killer! His influence will drive me insane, I can feel it. I’m already far from the bloke I used to be. I hardly know who Max Aleshire is anymore. But . . ._ He glanced at his lover, a sidelong gaze. _It doesn’t matter who I am. I am who Cameron makes me. He’s a serial killer, but he’s kept me by his side. He proposed to me, gave me a bloody ring. Wants to marry me in Brisbane because he knows I’d like that. He’s never tried to kill me; only killed_ for _me. I love him. He loves me. We’re getting married._ His eyes fell onto his hand, intertwined with Cameron’s on the bench. _We’re getting married._  
          “Der Flug LX 178 ist jetzt am Gate E34 bereit zum Einstieg,” informed a voice over the PA system. They repeated this in English: “Flight LX 178 to Singapore is now boarding at gate E34.”  
          Cameron tossed the newspaper down beside him. “That’s us.”  
          Max stood up first. There were still twenty minutes until their flight would depart, but being on the plane was better than being out in the open. “Let’s go.”  
          Together, they headed for their gate. Despite Max’s inner (and slight outer) panic, they got past security with no trouble. Once they were on the plane, Cameron gave their tickets to a stewardess, who proceeded to inform him where their seats were. He thanked her, then urged Max along down the cabin. The Aussie allowed him to do this, taking it in playful stride.  
          Once they’d sat, Max in the window seat, he thought some more. There was still a part of him that wanted to escape. Still, there was a sliver of rationality rallying in the back of his head. It screamed for him to kill Cameron somehow and run. To avenge everyone, himself included. Everyone, even . . . He reached up and fiddled with the heart pendant.  
          This rationality, without a doubt, belonged to Max Aleshire. It felt like there were two completely different people battling for control of him. He’d used to be Max Aleshire: meek and introverted, but most of all, sane. But soon, that part of him would die completely. Replacing him would be Max Fenn. This change was frightening, because he couldn’t tell much about what kind of person Max Fenn would turn out to be. As a personality, he seemed a child: too young and undeveloped to determine much about him. But what he’d seen so far, things he couldn’t attribute to Max Aleshire—the attempt at killing Cameron, his oh-so-terrifying loss of control and resulting extroversion . . . What would happen to him? What would happen to Cameron? Would Cameron even notice such a change at this point?  
           _You’re being melodramatic_ , he tried to convince himself. _You sound insane . . . Is Max Fenn sane, though?_ He wanted to pull out his own hair. _No. No, shut up. I’m fine. I’m not insane; Cameron hasn’t driven me crazy. The kangas in my top paddock aren’t loose yet._ This play on Strine comforted him a little by reminding him: _I’m going back to Straya. God, how many years has it been?_ A quick mental calculation. _Almost twelve, I reckon. A little over eleven, at least._  
          He glanced at Cameron. The writer was again absorbed in something else; his phone, this time.  
           _We could stay in Singapore, for all I care. As long as I’m by his side, does it matter where we go?_ “I should change my appearance.”  
          Cameron glanced at him. “What do you mean? You look fine.”  
          “Someone might recognize me in Brisbane.” The Aussie glanced at the screen on the back of the chair in front of him. It was off, but he stared at it anyway. “We should dye my hair or something.”  
          “Max, if they’re gonna recognize you, it’ll be the fuckin’ wedding log that’ll do it, not your hair.”  
          “I don’t understand.”  
          “We have to put our full names.” A shrug. “You can invite your . . . I don’t know, grandparents or childhood friends or whatever. Or we could have a public wedding. If that’s a thing.”  
          “But . . . That’s a terrible idea,” Max argued in a hush. “If any of my extended family sees, then—”  
          “Then we’ll deal with it.”  
          “How? If you say murder, I swear, I’ll—”  
          “No, God no.” Cameron shook his head in disapproval. “It doesn’t matter if anyone recognizes you.”  
          “If word spreads back to my parents—”  
          “Who cares? If you look happy, they’ll be relieved. Tell your extended family you’re all right. Ask them not to spread word.”  
          “They will, though.”  
          “Your parents will think you ran away voluntarily.”  
          Max leaned back in his chair with an anxious sigh. “What makes you so sure this won’t backfire? If they don’t respond the way you think, you might wind up arrested.”  
          The writer shrugged, skimming through his phone again. “I like to play my odds. Life’s not fun without some risks. Besides, if the reward is marrying you, then it’s well worth it.”  
          The Aussie’s cheeks flushed a little. With a coy smile, he muttered, “You’re an idiot.”  
          Cameron revealed a handsome smirk. “But I’m _your_ idiot.”  
          It seemed so out of character for him to say something like that. Was he only trying to charm him out of his paranoia? Either way, it was working. Max gently hit his arm, a playful lovetap.  
          “Shut up, cunt.”  
          For a split second, the profanity shocked Cameron. Then, he grinned. Under his breath: “Fuckin’ banana bender.”  
          Max gasped, beamed, and hit him again, a bit harder this time. “Shut up!”  
          Cameron laughed, so did Max. As their laughter died down, they stared at each other.  
           _I’m so lucky. I mean, I’ve almost died three or four times since meeting Cameron, but . . . It’s all been worth it. My life was so boring before him. What would I be doing now, if I’d never met him? Nothing different. I’d still be doing digital artwork in my apartment, alone. Stacey would still be alive, and I’d still talk to my parents, but without Cameron . . . I’m so selfish. I’m a greedy bastard, I know, but I don’t care._  
          “I love you,” he said.  
          Cameron’s smile became more genuine as his dark caramel eyes searched his. A few seconds later, he leaned forward and gave him a peck on the lips. Max did the same. He could hardly wait for next month.


	18. Endearment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on February 16th, 2018.

The planning phase of the wedding felt like a fever dream. Cameron had handled everything he could, relying on Max only when he couldn’t decide on something. It was obvious he wasn’t cut out for something as sentimental as a wedding. Max would’ve collapsed under such pressure, though, so he appreciated him taking one for the team.  
          Brisbane was as perfect as Max remembered it. Finally, he could go outside without feeling a chill run down his spine. He and Cameron shared a room at the five-star Gambaro Hotel. A day or two after arriving in the city, they filled out the proper documentation. Everything seemed to be going according to plan, but that only made Max fear for the worst.  
          Cameron was the one to fill out the notice of intended marriage forms. Rather than fill them out on a computer, he decided to print and complete them by hand. After only a few seconds, he spoke up:  
          “Is Maxime your only given name?”  
          Max, lying on the bed in their hotel room, glanced toward him. He was half-tempted to lie, but decided against it. “Geoffrey,” he mumbled.  
          “Geoffrey?”  
          “Maxime Geoffrey Aleshire.”  
          “J?”  
          “G.”  
          Cameron started writing that down. “Is that your father’s name?”  
          “No. I don’t think there’s another Geoffrey in my family.”  
          The writer grunted in mild intrigue. Neither of them spoke for a moment, until Max teased, “I’ve shown you mine, now show me yours.”  
          “Mine?” A pause. “Cameron Chandler Fenn.”  
          Max didn’t respond. A beat of silence came and went. “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t talked to Ash . . .”  
          “No, I’m glad he’s dead. Don’t worry about it.”  
          Finding a same-sex-friendly pastor and church proved to be less of a hassle than they’d expected. Of course, the church they chose had to have an olive interior. First, they were wedding on his anniversary with Stacey. Second, they were doing it surrounded by her favorite color. Cameron told Max he should take it as her blessing, but to him, it felt blasphemous and cruel. He’d come too far to back out now, though.  
          January and the first week of February flew by. Now, it was February 14th. The big day; a doomsday, nonetheless. They’d decided to have a public wedding after all, despite its risks and unconventional nature. Thankfully, Max had yet to see anyone he recognized. There were so many people in the pews—some with cameras—that it was hard to focus on what the pastor was saying.  
          The ceremony thus far had been a delightful blur. He and Cameron were now standing at the end of the altar together. Both of them wore wedding tuxedos. Cameron had requested Max wear a white gown, but showed generosity by backing down upon Max’s disapproval. Or had the request been a joke? After Ash, Max didn’t know anymore.  
          There had to be someone in the crowd that recognized him. A relative, a childhood friend, someone. Someone would compromise him; they’d both be pulled in for questioning. If that happened, would he be able to lie about how they wound up together? Would Cameron, who hated lies, _support_ lying about it?  
          Right as it seemed anxiety might get the better of him, he felt Cameron’s hands grip his tighter. The unspoken command, to look at him and him alone, Max obeyed. As a reward for the obedience, Cameron squeezed and smiled at him. Max returned a troubled smirk.  
          “Do you, Cameron Chandler Fenn, take Maxime Geoffrey Aleshire to be your husband,” inquired the pastor, “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”  
          “I do,” Cameron answered.  
          The pastor cocked his head toward Max. “And do you, Maxime Geoffrey Aleshire, take Cameron Chandler Fenn to be _your_ husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”  
          Max stared at Cameron. Their eyes held firm, locked to each other. “I do.”  
          The pastor closed his bible and lowered his arms. “You may now proceed with the exchanging of the rings.”  
          Since there were no best men for either of them, they had their wedding bands in the inner pockets of their blazers. Cameron reached up and pulled out the one for Max first. Then, he took hold of the Aussie’s left hand again.  
          “Max,” he began, “two years ago, I told you I’d never hurt you. By now, I’m guessing you know I meant it. So long as you have this ring on, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe, happy, loved, and cared for. I never would’ve guessed I’d be able to feel this way for anyone, but I love everything about you. Even those things that should annoy me.” He smiled; a light laugh rippled through the hall. Max chuckled back.  
          Finished, Cameron slipped the wedding band onto the Aussie’s third finger. Taking this as a cue, Max reached up with his right hand and pulled out the ring for Cameron. The writer was sort of tense as he gained a gentle hold on his left hand.  
          “Cameron,” Max started, “two years ago, I didn’t believe in fate. I thought I knew what my life would be; that nothing would ever change. Then you came along. Now, I’ve learned that everything seems to happen for a reason. I can’t tell coincidences from fate anymore, because the biggest coincidence in my life led me to find my fate with you. So take this ring as my promise that I will never leave you, no matter what.”  
          He slid the gold band onto Cameron’s ring finger. When he looked up, he saw Cameron’s touched expression—brows furrowed, grin bittersweet—and mimicked it.  
          “You may kiss,” the pastor informed them.  
          The two of them leaned toward each other slowly. Then, finally, they exchanged a soft, loving kiss, savoring it for a long moment. The churchful of strangers applauded and cheered for them.  
           _This is the beginning of my undoing_ , Max found himself thinking, _but I don’t care. These are my vows, and I intend to stick to them. For Cameron._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for the support! This story has wound up as one of my personal favorites. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If so, please leave a Kudo and check out the sequel, _[Last Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14111652)_!  
>  ~ _Noëlle_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Carrot Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760184) by [Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry)
  * [Last Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14111652) by [Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry)




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